


C’est Magnifique, mais ce n’est Pas la Guerre: c'est de la Folie

by composer



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Albino Dave, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, F/F, F/M, France (Country), Historical, M/M, Masturbation, Nazis, Past Rape/Non-con, Sexual Content, Violence, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-16
Updated: 2014-06-02
Packaged: 2017-12-14 22:44:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 28,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/842213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/composer/pseuds/composer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>January, 1942. The town of Blâmont, France is quiet under a blanket of snow and German oppression. </p><p>Corporal Dave Strider arrives here to lead a regiment of natives against the invaders; a writer named Rose offers him board; a Night Witch named Nina Makarova becomes Jade Harley, and subsequently crashes her plane near the Vantas family farm; a Jewish boy, John, hides beneath the railroad tracks; a Nazi's daughter named Vriska discovers him; Terezi, a German girl, upholds order; a young German soldier named Eridan struggles with his sexuality in a time when such a struggle could mean death; Sollux Captor doesn't help; Aradia Megido and Feferi Peixes, and their romance that doesn't fit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. No Greater Display of Courage

"Another cigarette, Corporal?"

He tore his eyes from the countryside rolling past his window and looked up at the porter who had come into his compartment, an old man dressed trimly in blue. The porter gestured to the cigarette stub still pinched between Dave's fingers, burnt to the butt, leaking ash onto the pants of his dress uniform. He swore to himself and brushed the black trousers off, twisting to make sure the red stripe down the length of his leg was clean. 

"Yes, thank you," he replied distractedly, opening the train's window a crack to toss the stub out into the snow. A wild chill burst into the compartment as soon as it was granted access from outside, seeking to share in the warmth of the compartment. 

The porter disappeared, only to return shortly after with a carton of Raleighs. "Here you are, sir."

"Many thanks." 

He lit up just as soon as the door slid shut behind the old man, filling the compartment with smoke almost immediately, but he couldn't be bothered to open the window. His uniform wasn't built for protection from the cold. Absently, he tipped ash onto the cheap carpet---better there than on his starched black uniform jacket, or, God forbid, his white gloves or belt. 

The corporal was intent on dressing to impress. When he arrived in the small town of Blâmont, France, he would be appointed to the head of a small group of native Frenchmen who were revolting against the Germans; all of this had been briefed back in England, before he'd left for this long and tasked journey, with words of warning from his commanders: he was to be successful. Victory began on the fringe. They would work there way up and, eventually, retake Paris for the Allies.

In essence, Dave was a gift of goodwill from the British to the French.

Not that he minded. Being at the brisk age of twenty-two, he wasn't used to being in charge of anything, let alone a full regiment of soldiers (never mind that they were simply civilians with guns. The principle was the same). It would be quite a change to find so many men looking to him for instruction. 

Again, he wondered why the French hadn't sent for one of their own soldiers; he imagined they had to be quite busy after the fall of Paris two years prior, but surely they had an officer to spare for Blâmont. Homesickness that he wouldn't admit to even himself curled in his stomach where the nicotine wouldn't reach. Maybe this arrangement would be bearable if a few of his comrades had made the venture with him, but he was completely alone on a train headed for the middle of nowhere.

Which, apparently, was here.

The train choked to a stop as the porter reappeared in his doorway. "Corporal Strider, we've just arrived at the station. A representative will be waiting for you on the platform." 

He nodded and stood, scooping up his red-rimmed hat in his hands and following the porter out into the narrow corridor of the train. The man led him to a side exit and wrenched the heavy, rusted door open, letting in a blast of cold air and flurries of snow. The porter proceeded him down the steps and set his canvas bags down on the platform. "Good day, sir."

"The same to you," Dave said, without thinking, as he stepped down from the train onto the concrete platform. He set his hat down over his neatly combed blond hair and swept the station with his eyes. It was little more than a covered stone walkway. This, he realized, was ideal; had it been a larger station, the Germans would have been watching it more closely. And they would not have let a British soldier slip so easily into their town.

For a moment, he thought he'd been stranded there, before a man seemed to unfold from the snow and come towards him, dressed in a ratty black coat and work boots. The man shook Dave's hand fiercely and chuckled. _"Bienvenue, Caporal!"_

Dave hesitated, planning his poor French before speaking it. _"Bonne journée."_

The man laughed heartily. "Do not worry, Corporal. It seems I speak more English than you do French."

"Well, that is a relief."

"Come, walk with me," the man beckoned, turning on his heel. He took up Dave's bags despite any protests. Beyond the platform, a forest sprung up, separating the station from the town. A well-worn path cut its way through the snow-capped trees. "My name is Antoine-Laurent Fortier. Welcome to France, my friend."

"Thank you," Dave said, feeling like they were the only words he'd said all day. They reached the forest path and left the biting wind behind; the temperature rose noticeably. The winter had left the forest eerily still. As they walked, he attempted to find a trace of wildlife, and came up blank. 

"The men are very eager to meet you," Fortier went on, filling up the silence. "You arrived on a good day. The Germans are all holed up in their bunks while they wait for the snow to die down. They don't expect anything from us."

"Luck in on our side, then." He flicked his cigarette into a drift of snow.

"It is," Fortier agreed. "I feel a change coming. It begins here, in the country. We will march on Paris."

"Indeed."

They walked on, Fortier now telling him trivial things; that he would need a change of clothes if he wanted to remain incognito, that he would be staying at the local inn, that he would enjoy the homeliness of Blâmont. Dave hardly paid attention. His shiny dress shoes were losing their luster as he walked through the snow, though fortunately, he would be retiring this uniform for the duration of his stay. 

As the trees began to thin, Fortier stopped him. "There's a bridge up ahead, leading into town. Tread with caution."

Dave obliged, stalking to where the treeline gave way to the modest bridge, arcing over an icy river and depositing them into the town. Only civilians were afoot. Encouraged, Dave and his guide crossed the bridge into Blâmont. The town was exactly the way Dave had imagined it. Cobbled streets twisted between squat buildings, all of them made of a warm brown stone, frosted with fresh snow. Wrought iron street lamps stood on corners. And as of yet, there wasn't a German in sight. 

"Here we are," Fortier said excitedly, emboldened by the quiet of the streets. A man peddling newspapers stopped and stared at Dave's uniform as he passed, then turned and disappeared. To spread the word, probably. Dave ignored the feeling of eyes on his back as he followed Fortier onto a wide street. Here, the buildings rose above the ground considerably, and people braved the cold to sell their wares.

"This is the place." Fortier stopped before a two-story building, all of its windows shuttered before the cold, its black-painted front door wearing a sign that read _Inn_. 

Inside, the inn was warm and dark, lit only by the fireplace behind the front desk. Men sat at tables and drank nearby; Dave figured that the first floor of the inn was just a pub. Carpeted stairs ran upwards and out of sight. Fortier beckoned him to the desk with him, still chatting. "We would have had you stay with one of our men, but if their home was to be raided and a soldier found in their midst, there would have been hell to pay, yes?"

"Understandable."

Fortier slapped a hand on the scarred brown desk, then repeated the motion on Dave's back. "I would stay with you while you checked in, my friend, but I must spread this glorious news to the others. Please, get situated. We will speak come morning." 

"Of course. Thank you for your hospitality," Dave added, already thinking of a warm bed and food and alcohol. Fortier nodded once and was gone, back into the cold. 

Dave leaned his arms on the desk and kept his back to the eyes he felt glued to him, wishing the inn keeper would appear already and give him a room. He was busy brushing white flecks of snow from his black hat when his wish was granted. 

_"Comment puis-je vous aider, soldat?"_

His eyes flicked up, startled. The woman behind the desk came as a surprise; he'd been expecting a man. The next surprise was how attractive she was---somehow he'd formed a vision in his head of some country bumpkins. But this woman was beautiful, in a quiet sort of way, with golden blonde hair and a purple headband. Her dress buttoned up to her throat and her sleeves were rolled to the elbow. 

He fumbled with his French once more. _"Mon nom est caporal Dave Strider. . . J'ai été chargé de louer une chambre ici."_

"So. The famous Dave Strider arrives," she said, smiling at his poor command of the language. 

"Thank God, you speak English," he sighed in relief shaking his head. "I was getting ready to play charades."

Her smile was lovely. "Rose Lalonde. Pleased to meet you."

"Same to you." He didn't shake her hand; she was a woman, after all. "Now, about that room?"

"Room three. Upstairs on the left." She handed him a silver key. "Make sure to let me know if you need anything." 

"Will do. Thank you." He gave her a grateful nod and wound his way through the booze-smeared tables, heading for the stairs, and, hopefully, a made bed. In a dim hallway, he unlocked room three and shut himself inside. It wasn't much---a bed, a desk, a heater, a window with the curtains drawn. No bathroom; he'd seen the signs down the hall. 

He dropped his bag at the foot of the bed and sat down on it with a sigh, glad to be resting before the cast iron heater. He set his hat down beside him, folded his gloves neatly on top of it, and circled his belt around the union of accessories. The bright silver buttons of his jacket resisted him. Once he'd shucked it off, along with his tie and dress shirt, he paused in his sleeveless undershirt and trousers for a moment, savoring the act of shedding his professional military layers. His hands were at the button of his trousers when there was a knock on his door.

"Hello?" he called, standing slowly in the hopes that the person was already gone, off to another room.

"You forgot one of your bags, Corporal," a familiar voice called.

Indeed, he'd only come inside with one of his canvas bags; he unlocked the door to find Rose Lalonde once more, now standing on the threshold with the missing bag heaved in her thin arms. He took it from her immediately and set it down, pretending not to notice her eyes on his bare arms or the lines of his chest, visible through the sheer undergarment. "Thank you. My apologies."

"Nonsense. Enjoy your stay, please."

"Goodnight."

He shut the door, feeling a heat in the pit of his stomach that he ignored, and kicked his bag over to its brother. There was something so magnetic about the innkeeper. Her face was in his thoughts as he stepped out of his shoes and slacks and stood before the mirror in his underwear, tracing his fingers over the birthmark that splashed across his left shoulder---further proof of the albinism he'd inherited from his mother. He blinked his pink-red eyes and ran a hand through his pale blond hair, mussing up the neat military comb over that he hated dearly, and nodded to himself. He'd made it here in one piece.

He washed up in the basin by the wall, wincing when the water was colder than the air outside, and crawled into his bed with a feeling of great peace and rightness, brought on by much-needed rest.

* * *

Night had fallen by the time Karkat Vantas was heading out into the fields around his home, and it was absolutely frigid. 

He scowled to himself. If his father hadn't run off with the other citizen-soldiers, he wouldn't need to go out right now. He hated that his father was out with the revolutionaries, planning to fight the Germans; Karkat knew deep in his heart that the Nazis would win any battle the Frenchmen could wage. But it wasn't his place to tell his father what he thought. For the time being, he had bigger problems---namely, holding down the family farm while his father stayed in town, preparing for the battle that was soon to come.

In a way, Karkat was better off here, on the farm. It was out of the way of Blâmont. He wouldn't be caught in the crossfire, at least. A raging river separated his father's property from the town, and a thick forest penned in the fields, farmhouse, and barn. He felt safe. And he felt lonely. His mother had died long ago, having caught pneumonia, and without his father, the estate was much too big for one seventeen-year-old boy. Not that he would admit that to anyone.

The farmhouse was as eerie as ever with only his body occupying it, and he was almost eager to get out into the cold, just to escape the quiet. He drew on his coat in a hurry and stepped into work boots. Outside, the field behind the house was still and calm. The barn loomed to the right. He started toward it, jumping to keep warm. Now the farmhouse didn't look so bad. He mentally planned his next actions so he could get inside quickly; he just needed to put feed out for the chickens and horses and check on the sheep. 

He only made it halfway to the barn; by that point, he saw the orange glow of flames licking up in the distance, beyond the trees, and he started running.

He had to take a moment to remember what was out there, beyond the trees, that could be burning---but nothing came up. Just empty fields. It couldn't be a wild fire, not in this snow. He didn't understand. Rather, he just kept running, tripping his way through the dark copse of trees that ringed the property, falling several times and springing back up just as quickly. Fear gripped him---had Germans come to burn their revolt to the ground, before it even started? He had to know. 

His breath hiked in and out of his chest like icicles, slicing his insides to pieces on each inhale and exhale, but he couldn't be bothered to stop yet. The trees were giving way to the fields beyond, and this close, he could see flames over the snow, and something dark and hulking that sent chills down his spine. Cold sweat beaded between his shoulder blades. Only at the edge of the trees did he stop, panting, to observe.

 _"Merde!"_ It was a plane, that much he could tell. It had made impact some fifty yards away and skidded to a stop here, judging by the tracks in the snow. One of its wings had been left behind at the crash sight. It was on its side now, engulfed in flames, with its one good wing sticking up like a red flag. The cockpit was empty, and he thought the pilot must have ejected before crashing. Until he saw a dark figure sprawled in the snow next to the wreck.

He took a step to help, then stopped; what if this was a Nazi? An Italian? A Jap? But the plane was old, by the looks of it, outdated and painted with the Soviet emblem on its burning tail. He threw caution to the wind and crossed the distance in large bounds. He was terrified of finding the pilot to be dead already, or of being too close when the fuselage caught and the plane exploded; he thought that was what happened to these things, anyway. 

_"Merde,"_ he repeated. This time the swear came out as a cough, as the thick black smoke issuing from the plane's belly slammed into him. He dropped to his knees next to the pilot and felt his stomach drop; as if matters could be made any worse, the pilot was a woman. 

Her flying cap was lost in the wreckage, but her goggles were still fixed over her eyes; he couldn't tell if she was alive or dead. The alarming amount of blood staining the snow under her made him think it was the latter, and, further pointing to a bleak outcome, some of her long black hair had twisted free of it bun and was sticking to a gash on her forehead. He sucked in ragged breaths and tried to think clearly. 

There was really only one thing to do. He scooped her up in his arms, turned heel, and ran back the way he'd come.

He was struggling through the knotty trees when the plane finally _did_ explode, with a noise so deafening that he fell hard to his knees, the woman still limp in his arms. Karkat swore again, got to his feet, and picked up the pace. The trees were suddenly painted orange with the fire behind him; slowly, the colors receded to a slow burn as he left the trees and made it to the fields behind his house. 

He forgot about his duties in the barn entirely, struggling to carry the woman back to the farmhouse as the adrenaline wore off and his strength waned. He had to throw her awkwardly over his shoulder to get the back door open---he was deathly afraid of the motion upsetting her wounds, though he didn't know what they were just yet---and hustle her inside. The farmhouse greeted him with its usual silence as he trudged upstairs, into the spare bedroom. 

Karkat dropped the pilot unceremoniously on the made bed and hurried to the gas lamp hanging on the wall, kindling it and throwing warm light into the room, then darted out into the water closet in the hall, filling a bucket with water and heaving it back to her. He slopped water all over the floorboards in the process. At her bedside, he almost panicked; he didn't know anything about first aid, only the real basics and what he remembered his mother doing for him when he'd fallen from the second level of the barn and cut his leg on a pickax. 

As he wet a cloth in the water, he allowed his eyes to rake her body; she looked like a corpse already. Her khaki uniform was stained with blood in more places than one, especially under the belt that cinched around her waist. That worried him more than anything. With shaking fingers, he tugged the goggles from her face and nearly dropped them in shock---bright green eyes stared back at him, questioning him. 

He babbled at her in French, not wondering initially if she even spoke the language. " _Merde_ , I'm sorry, madame, but you've been hurt very badly---"

"It's . . . fine," she breathed in the same language, and only now did he notice how irregularly her chest rose and fell. _"Merci."_

Still embarrassed, he pressed the wash cloth to the cut on her forehead. Her eyes fluttered closed. He didn't think this to be a good thing at all, and let the cloth rest on her wound as he fumbled to undo her belt. He paused and swallowed. It was entirely inappropriate for him to touch her this way, but what choice did he have? 

"Go ahead," she encouraged, eyes still shut. 

Karkat swallowed again and went for the buttons of her uniform shirt, pulling it open carefully. Her sleeveless undershirt was white, soaked with sweat and blood, and he blanched. He couldn't take care of her without removing it. 

"You'll have . . . to cut it away," she instructed. He was relieved to have permission and guidance, and reached into his coat pocket for his pocket knife. Taking extreme care, he cut the shirt away at the shoulders and wrenched the shirt away completely. He looked away on principle. He was a respectful boy, not used to being around women---when he went into town, it was to make a profit selling to the grocer and that was it. 

Hesitantly, he turned his eyes back, trying not to linger on her chest where it was visible, cupped in her brassiere, and instead looked to the wound on her stomach. It was ugly, leaking blood and turning dark around the edges. He plucked the wash cloth from her head and pressed it over the gash. She winced, but nodded for him to continue. 

"Now what?" he asked, keeping the shakes out of his voice. 

"Alcohol. To clean the wound."

He found some rubbing alcohol downstairs in the cupboard and retrieved it in record time, soaking another cloth with it and applying it gently to the wound. She flinched again, almost violently, for obvious reasons. He didn't move. After a time, she nodded, and he wiped the cut clean. It was painful just to look at, but he persevered. Tossing the soiled cloth aside, he bound the wound with bandages he'd brought from the water closet and tied them securely. 

Karkat felt his cheeks redden considerably at the thought of removing her pants, but she saved him the embarrassment. "It's alright. I think . . . that's the worst of it."

Thank God, he thought, helping her out of her tattered uniform shirt. As he was balling it up, he noticed her surname was printed on the left breast--- _Makarova_. Definitely a Soviet. 

"Don't," she said, startling him. "Don't call me that."

"Then what do I call you?" 

"Jade Harley."

* * *

It was freezing in the tunnels. 

John Egbert couldn't feel his fingers anymore; he needed gloves. But he couldn't risk surfacing again, not after the last time, when a Nazi nearly saw him. It was too dangerous to be Jewish in France. 

His glasses were folded on the stone floor next to him. He balled his shaking hands into fists and pressed the knuckles into his eyes, choking down the memories he didn't want, but they came nonetheless, unbidden and all-encompassing.

He remembered his father's hand on his shoulder, always so strong and solid and present; he remembered his father's business and his suit and tie. Something gnawed at John's subconscious, and he wondered what it could possibly be until he realized: he'd forgotten his father's pipe for a moment, warm and chugging smoke and always on his lips. He couldn't start to forget things yet. It hadn't even been two years. 

They were supposed to be safe in France. They were supposed to be away from the fear of living in Germany. But that plan had fallen through almost immediately---by the time John was fifteen, the Green Police were knocking on their door. None of the neighbors were under suspicion; native Frenchmen weren't Jewish, but Christian, and they watched from curtained windows as John's father was arrested. 

John didn't know where his father was. Probably dead, he reasoned, because that was better than imagining his father laboring in a camp somewhere, being beaten and starved to the edge of his life. Death held a poetic sweetness that John appreciated. After so long in these tunnels, listening to trains batter the tracks over his head, he wouldn't mind it. A quick end to his struggles. A reward for his strife.

Quietly, to himself, he thought that he ought to have gone with his father. He was a Jew, too. Though the Egberts hardly practiced the religion, it was still on their papers. He deserved to be kidnapped as well. But that decision, in the end, wasn't up to him; the wild guerrilla fighters of France had seized him before he'd had the time to consider it, and that was the end of that. They were so blinded by their thirst for revolution that they hadn't stopped to think that maybe, John Egbert didn't want them to save him.

It was by their doing that he found himself in the icy, rat-infested stone tunnels beneath the railroad station. They were built for maintenance, back when Blâmont had looked like it was going to shoot past its destiny as a small blip on the map of eastern France and catapult to Paris-worthy grandeur; but the population remained relatively small, and the service tunnels under the infrequently used station were abandoned. 

The Germans didn't know about them, though, and that's all that mattered. Every night a different revolutionary would deliver food and water to John, and, if he was lucky, a blanket knit by the old woman on Rue Lumière or another coat. He slept during the day, waking in the late afternoon to await the delivery, and during the night he would entertain himself with the works of authors that the Germans had banned---Erich Maria Remarque, Jack London, Karl Marx. Whenever a book was banned, rather than being burned, it was funneled out of sight, into John's waiting hands. 

He grew restless. He felt like a dog, trapped in a cage, never being let out and only being fed through a slit in the door. Despite this, he tried to be grateful. So many Jews were killed these days. He was one of the lucky ones, he thought firmly. He had a place to sleep and eat and shit whenever he wanted to. Clothes. During the summer months, the men had even collected his garments to be washed by their wives and returned to him later. The winter was too harsh for him to give up any scraps of his clothing.

John buried his hands in his coat pockets and stood, pacing up and down the length of the main tunnel. This was the one that opened up to the platform overhead---a metal hatch in the ceiling was the only exit. He stayed close to it. Had he been more afraid of being captured, he would have burrowed far from the entrance and only come out for food, but it seemed cowardly. He would stand his ground, no matter what. 

Despite these firm beliefs, his knees still knocked together when he heard the hatch's cover start to creak open. 

He moved without thinking and darted to the end of the tunnel, flying around the corner and pressing his body to the wall of the next tunnel. It was too early in the afternoon for a revolutionary to be coming for him. He began to panic, just as voices reached him. 

"Ugh, it smells like shit down here," a brazen female voice noted, in German, John's native tongue. 

A sharper female replied, "Then why are you going down there?"

"Because I'm _bored_ , Terezi."

The girl, Terezi, laughed; it was a cackle. "You're always bored, Vriska."

"Look, it's cold as hell out there. Let's just warm up before we head back to the barracks."

John's breath halted in his throat. Barracks. The natives of Blâmont only spoke of barracks when they were referring to the German encampment west of the town, where the Nazis stayed and met and planned. And if these girls were heading _back_ to the barracks, they were almost certainly Germans themselves; though they sounded too young to be anything but the children of officers. Which wasn't a huge improvement in John's case. 

"Are you warm yet?"

The other girl, Vriska, laughed this time. "What are you so afraid of? If you're so opposed, then wait outside. I just want to look around."

"Fine. Don't do anything stupid, _dummkopf._ "

_"Fick dich!"_

The hatch was sealed, the cold air stagnating as it was found without a source, and he was locked in with a German girl. 

He tried to breathe evenly and quietly, but it was like trying to paint the Mona Lisa by memory; he slipped often, letting out a ragged breath without thinking, and had to wait in pained silence for the patter of footsteps, for discovery. What would he do if she found him? He was weak, but she was a girl, after all. Maybe he could overpower her. Kill her? Oh god, no. And what would he do with the body? Would he kill her friend, too? What would the men of Blâmont think? He'd probably be exalted---

In his panic, he'd shut his eyes very tightly. When he opened them, he realized that the movement in the main tunnel had stopped. 

Slowly, afraid of what he'd find, he turned his head in that direction. Blue eyes stared back. 

He felt like someone had shoved a butcher knife through his spine; he went still, unable to move or run or yell. So much for any plans to fight her. He could only stare as the girl stepped toward him, head tilted to the side curiously. She was striking, a distant part of his mind thought---the part that was still a teenage boy under all of the war propaganda. German-blonde hair and dark blue eyes, and features that were sharp and attention-grabbing. 

Her eyebrows rose. _"Wer sind sie? Was machst du denn hier?"_

It took his French-filled mind a moment to remember his first language, German. _Who are you? What are you doing here?_. He replied in turn, "Please, miss. I'm only trying to survive."

"What do you . . . " A furrow dug itself between her eyebrows as she stared, confused. And finally, realization dawned on her face as suddenly as if someone had changed a radio station. She said the word, the deadly one: _"Jude."_

Jew.

He could have got down on his knees and begged her not to out him, begged her to leave and never tell anyone of what she'd found here, but he was frozen with fear, and, he noted, legitimate cold. She took in his sorry state---he was a tall boy, therefore appearing even skinnier than he already was; his face was dirty, his hair uncombed; he wasn't dressed warm enough. She could have snapped him like a twig, she had that look of power about her, and when she smirked it was like the knife in his spine was being twisted.

"You are, aren't you?" she breathed, taking a half-step towards him. "You're a Jew. In hiding." 

He neither confirmed nor denied, remaining rooted in place with his hands curled into defensive fists at his sides.

"I can't believe this." She looked like she was on the verge of laughter. "A _Jew_ , hiding right under those idiots' noses. It's madness."

And then she did laugh, harsh peals that resounded in the cave. He felt his knees were fit to buckle. God, this was horrifying. She was going to turn him in now, this was it for him. He was done for. Over with.

"Hey---hey, calm down," she ordered, her amusement fading when she saw his expression crumple. "What's wrong with you?"

He couldn't comprehend. "You're going to turn me in."

"Hardly." 

Now it was his face that grew confused. "What?" 

She shook her head. "I'm not turning you in, Jew. Then my father and his colleagues win." 

"And who . . . are they?" 

"Nazis, obviously."

He fainted.

* * *

Senior Soldier--- _Obersoldat_ \---Eridan Ampora was only nineteen years old; for this reason, when he wet his razor and scraped it along his jaw, it was not because he had a shadow of hair but to keep up appearances. At least he could say he shaved. Still in front of the mirror, he dunked his comb in water and carded his blond hair back neatly, pulling his field cap snug over his head. He buttoned up his uniform shirt and threaded his belt through the loops in his trousers. His shoes were already shined. 

He drew the swastika-embellished armband to his upper arm and twisted it rightwards. 

Dressed now, he left the bunks---the first one out---and headed into the frigid air. The German encampment had been set up in a large, seemingly impenetrable circle, barring the natives from seeing what went on there, with all of its buildings pointing inward, where Eridan now stood. He moved to the flagpole and stood at attention. More soldiers trickled out of their bunks to join him. 

A harsh wind sprang up as they waited for the major to arrive, for inspection. Not a single man moved to turn his shoulder to the cold or rub the circulation back to his arms; such infractions at this time could lead to a lashing, should the major be in a poor mood. Eridan stood stiff-shouldered and expressionless. It was the best way to get by in these situations. 

The major met them briefly; he had Hitler's flag chained up the flagpole, cracking in the wind, and shared his usual sentiments of Aryan supremacy before leaving them to their own devices. 

This was fine with Eridan. He'd been wanting to send a telegram to his father, waiting for news from him back home, and it was early enough that he might be able to get into the communications tent before the day's work gained any momentum. When the men broke ranks, he bee-lined for the modest tent, unzipped it enough to duck inside, and zipped it shut against the cold again. 

It was wider than he'd imagined, filled with analytic machines and devices he couldn't care to operate, let alone name. One young man alone was seated before a bank of machines, his black hair mussed as if he'd run his fingers through it recently. Eridan recognized him; his name was Sollux Captor, a gifted man when it came to technology, who couldn't have been more than a few months older than Eridan. He practically lived here, among the whirring of his devices.

"If you want something, make it quick," Captor said without looking up from the panel he was inspecting. 

"I want to send a telegram," Eridan replied, chin up. The analyst's tone wasn't friendly in the least; but that was alright. Eridan himself wasn't very friendly either.

Captor's eyes left the panel, fixing on Eridan's bright blue ones. "Sounds like a personal problem."

"It is a personal problem," he growled, taking a few steps closer. "And you're going to help me." 

Captor spun around in his chair, a sneer in place on his features. "Who's going to make me?"

"I am."

"That's funny," the young man chuckled, getting to his feet as well and closing the distance between them. They were the same height. "But I've never liked jokes much." 

Eridan felt the heat rise to his face and, unexpectedly, to his groin; he felt his member start to strain against the confines of his trousers. 

Any retort he could have summoned was silenced by mortification. Surely this was a mistake, surely his body was just confused---Captor did have some feminine features and a thin face. But likening him to a woman somehow made it worse; and without another word, he turned heel and burst out into the snow again.

No one was around, or paying attention to him at the very least, and he made few attempts to cover the bulge at his crotch as he darted for the bunks. Like he'd suspected, the beds were all empty; everyone had gone to breakfast by now. He was alone for a few more precious moments. There was no proper water closet in the barracks, but there was a room with a bath and an outlet to the well outside, so that the men could bathe---he locked himself in the tiny room and fumbled at his belt. 

Leaning over the ancient claw-footed tub, he stroked his penis with cold hands and ejaculated with Sollux Captor's face in mind; and that was the worst of it, the part that made him nearly vomit atop his own semen; the thought that another man had caused this reaction in him.

Later, when he was cleaned up and taken care of, he reclined on his bed and stared at the slats of the bed above his, wondering how exactly nineteen years of being so sure of his sexuality had shattered in one morning.

* * *

The curtains were drawn, so that even at seven o'clock that morning, the bedroom was dim. 

Aradia Megido woke to find herself alone, the bed empty but for her, and was momentarily confused; her one-room apartment seemed completely disarrayed without a key person sharing its landscape with her. 

"Over here." 

She sat up slowly, conscious of where her body was sore and where it was pleased, and followed the sound of the voice. Feferi Peixes looked horribly out of place at her two-seat table with a cup of heavily creamed coffee in hand. She was a princess, after all, the child of a wealthy Italian man who had recently become a wealthy Italian general; at the moment, he was probably overseeing a battle on the west coast. To his knowledge, his daughter was studying in nearby Belgium. Aradia would have given anything to see his face if he ever found out that his little princess was sleeping with a maid in Nazi-occupied France.

Just thinking the words made the acts seem that much more sultry and somehow _wrong_ , so she pushed the thoughts from her mind and stood up carefully, stretching as she went. Feferi watched her curiously. Bashful, Aradia slipped into the dress she'd been wearing the night before. Unlike the young woman sitting a few feet away, she was not assured enough in her own body to traipse around naked---especially if someone was watching so closely. 

"Coffee?" Feferi offered. Her bathrobe was only loosely cinched at the waist; her breasts were close to spilling out of the soft pink fabric. 

Aradia averted her eyes by accepting the mug, taking the seat across from her and mixing in sugar and milk the way she liked. Quiet fell. It was not uncommon for them to be lost in their own thoughts, unable to make a verbal connection; they came from different worlds. Feferi Peixes had grown up on a massive estate in Italy, with a vineyard as a backyard; and Aradia Megido had grown up in the poorest neighborhood of Blâmont and grown to become the maid at the local inn. She saw herself in the exact same place in ten, twenty, fifty years. 

Perhaps that was what was so attractive to her about Feferi; she was worldly. She'd been to America as a child, and England, and Germany, and Spain, and even Russia one warm summer. She told exciting tales of a boarding school in Rome and a summer house in Portugal. Meanwhile, Aradia had never seen far past the borders of her small town, not even Paris---the prize jewel of her country. She'd resigned herself to it by now. 

"Do you ever think this war will never end?" Feferi asked, breaking the silence.

Aradia looked up from her coffee in surprise. They'd never really discussed the war, ignoring the way the world was crumpling around them, content to share a tiny flat and their company. They never mentioned the Germans camped a few minutes away from town or the fact that the university in Belgium would not remain duped forever; eventually the school would report her absence to her father, and the prospect alone was frightening. 

_"He'll never find me here," Feferi had promised her one night, when they were curled together under three blankets just to fight the cold._

_"I hope you're right."_

She still couldn't help but envision General Peixes marching into town with a brigade, kicking down the door of her lowly apartment, wrenching Feferi out, and shooting Aradia in the head to tie up all loose ends. And who would stop him? He was an important man of military stature, a Nazi affiliate in a Nazi-controlled town. What did one nameless French woman matter in the scheme of things? Her name wouldn't even make the papers. 

"All things end," Aradia replied. When they were alone together, they spoke German; it was the only language they both spoke fluently. "Nothing lasts forever."

Feferi pursed her lips, the olive skin of her face firming. "I can't help but think that we'll be feeling the effects of the war long after it's over."

Aradia agreed, but she didn't want to put a damper on a good morning; she didn't have work today, and Feferi's time in Blâmont was almost like a vacation for her: she'd already removed a ridiculous amount of money from her accounts for her time here, ensuring that she wouldn't have to find a day job. When Aradia was working, Feferi took the time to explore the town on her own. And when Aradia wasn't at the inn, they holed up together in the apartment to keep out of the cold, put on the kettle, and chatted. They were both free of obligations at present. 

"That's dreary talk," she chided, taking Feferi's wrist and tugging her to the ruffled bed. "It's too early to be up, anyway."

Feferi, never to be upstaged, pinned Aradia to the mattress and kissed her; Aradia's heart thudded against her ribs like a drum. This was horribly wrong; this was an abomination in the eyes of the church and the Nazis alike. Any religion, she imagined. But that thought somehow made it easier to sink into her illicit lover's embrace and forget about the horror show outside her window.


	2. Masters of our Fate, Captain of our Souls

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not dead!!!! yeah

By Dave's second day in town, the temperatures had dropped drastically and the streets were choked with snow. 

He awoke earlier than he wanted to---a nasty military habit---and got out of bed, going to the window and drawing the curtains aside. Snow pillowed the outside window sill. Just brushing the glass with his finger, he had to retract his hand immediately: the window itself was colder than ice. He looked down on the people who were brave enough to be out in the cold so early, preparing for another day, and thanked God for the coal heater a few feet to his left.

He was just wondering what he was going to wear (his uniforms were far too conspicuous) when a knock sounded at the door. 

For the second time, he opened it to Rose Lalonde, who was now holding a garment bag and a shoe box. _"Bonjour, Caporal._ Mr. Fortier requested that I bring this up to you."

"Thank you." He accepted the items and set them on the end table next to his door. "Did he have anything else to say?"

"Nothing," she replied. "You're welcome to eat breakfast downstairs, when you're . . . decent."

She looked pointedly at his undergarments and walked away. 

Unfazed, he shut the door, tossed the garment bag on the bed, and unzipped it. The clothes were as plain as he could have hoped. A white shirt with stiff buttons, a brown vest, tweed slacks. A black overcoat and shoes. He dressed in a hurry, feeling his stomach smart with a lack of food and an excess of nicotine, holding the heavy coat over one arm as he headed downstairs.

He wasn't very excited about eating in a pub, but he doubted any of the options in Blâmont were worth the trouble. He claimed a table for two, draping his coat over the back of one rickety chair, and sat down. The barkeep was an older man who didn't seem keen on waiting tables; so he wasn't surprised when the owner of the inn herself stopped by his table. 

"Glad you decided to join us, Corporal," she commented, one hand on the back of the chair opposite his. "What can I get for you?"

He rattled off the first breakfast food that came to mind, barely paying attention to either of their words; he was busy tracing the curve of her hip with his eyes, the outline of cleavage through her flower-patterned dress, the angles of her. Only when she was walking away did he snap out of it.

He shook his head, wondering what was getting into him, and focused on being more attentive when she returned, this time with his breakfast and a cup of coffee.

"You're a lifesaver," he sighed, gratefully adding milk and sugar to the steaming drink as soon as it hit the table. 

"I try." She raised her eyebrows at him and left him alone.

He all but inhaled the food, simply grateful to have something filling and warm in front of him. He'd been feeling oddly cold since his arrival---not cold on his skin, but cold on his insides, like he'd swallowed ice. The feeling dissipated as soon as he began to eat. 

Relieved, he pushed aside his emptied plates and leaned back with his coffee, drinking it without noticing how scalding it was. A wiry teen came around and took his dishes from him. With the table now empty, he shifted, wondering whether he ought to be out doing something. He was here for a reason, after all. Before he could ponder it further, Rose Lalonde appeared for a third time. 

This time she sat down in the chair across from him, and he subconsciously straightened up. Two sheets of paper were held in both of her hands. "Mail for you, Corporal."

He accepted them warily. One was in an envelope, with a British seal---correspondence from home. The other was a handwritten note. He opened the letter first, slitting it open with a butter knife, and extracted a telegram from one of his commanding officer.

CORPORAL DAVE STRIDER

THE OPERATION IS NOW UNDERWAY STOP SEND REPORTS ON A WEEKLY BASIS AT THE VERY LEAST STOP REMAIN INCOGNITO WHILE IN THE TOWN STOP THE RECAPTURE OF FRANCE DEPENDS ON THIS STOP REPLY IMMEDIATELY

It was signed by a brigadier general Dave had met a few times, and did not care to meet again. He set the wire aside and picked up the note.

_Bonjour, Caporal._

_The men are eager to meet you. For your sake, we think it best that you remain indoors and out of sight for now. We will discuss plans of revolution later._

_Soon, you will receive a package. It will contain highly illegal firearms. Do not allow anyone to see them. Keep them in your room._

_-A. L. Fortier_

Dave swallowed, setting the note down, and met Rose's eyes.

* * *

Karkat didn't sleep that night. Though Jade Harley slipped into unconsciousness almost immediately, he spent the night staring blankly ahead, chancing a glance at her every so often before reverting his eyes to the wall. He was deathly afraid that she would die during the night, and a dead Soviet was worse than a live one. What would he do with the body?

The first rays of the morning sun startled him from his stupor, and he stood slowly, his bones protesting after sitting upright for so long. He decided to be useful while she was still sleeping and climbed up into the dusty attic. While there, he dug up an old shirt of his mother's, soft white linen with pearl buttons down the front. He was amazed. It still smelled like her. Folding his find in his hands, he tramped back to the guest room and let it down on the chair by the bed.

He returned once more, this time with a glass of water, wondering what he could give her that was more solid---eggs from the coop? He set the glass down on the bedside table with a dull _thunk_. The noise roused her from her sleep, and when he straightened up, green eyes were pinned to him. He clamped down on the instinct to jump in surprise.

"What's your name?" she demanded, voice rough with ill-use. 

He wanted to snap at her, which was his nature, but he reigned it in and answered, "Karkat Vantas."

"Where are we?" 

He felt his eyebrows furrow at the question. How could she not know where she was? But then again, her navigation must have been thrown off when she fell out of the sky---he provided another honest, snark-free answer. "Eastern France."

Her face fell at the news, which was obviously not a good thing, and she swore---which surprised him. It wasn't ladylike.

"What's wrong?" He made room for himself on the chair and tucked his hands between his knees. "Where are you supposed to be?" 

She scowled, clearly in pain but ignoring it as she spoke. "I should be halfway to Paris by now." 

"To do what?"

"What else? Drop a bomb." 

He nodded his head in confirmation. She was one of them, then, a Night Witch---a Soviet woman who dropped bombs on the Germans. A hero. She'd nearly died a hero's death, now that he thought about it. He felt a little intimidated by her, though she was lying in bed at the edge of her life.

He remembered her plane exploding---probably because of the bomb(s?) she'd been carrying. As if on cue, her eyes snapped back to his. "What about the plane?"

He dropped his gaze. "Burnt up out there. Almost killed you."

 _"Merde."_ Her head fell back against the pillows, eyes closing. 

Karkat fumbled for a way to take her mind off of the loss of her machine, finally reaching behind him and whipping his mother's shirt from the back of the chair. "Eh, I brought you something to change into."

He proffered it, keeping his eyes anywhere but her brassiere, until she cleared her throat. "You'll have to help me."

This was worse than last night; at least then, there'd been blood and panic to distract him, a kind of buzz in his ears---now there was silence. He averted his eyes and helped her sit up with an arm around her shoulders, blustering to guide her arms through the sleeves without looking. She saved him from the buttons, which she handled herself. 

"Thanks," she said, a bit shortly, before leaning back. She scrutinized him carefully. "How old are you?"

"Seventeen." Defensive after admitting how young he was, he shot back, "And what about you?"

She didn't openly care about his inquiry. "Twenty-one. Where are your parents?" 

"My father's in town, fighting in the revolution." He didn't mention his mother; she seemed to get the point. 

"And when will he be back?" 

He rolled his eyes, dropping back into the chair. "Who knows? I'm sure he's having a fabulous time with his friends, drinking himself half to death and waving guns around like a goddamn warmonger---"

His spiel softened her some---her eyes lost the hard glint of someone only wanting information. "I'm sorry. That you're here all by yourself." 

"It's not your problem," he said dismissively. To change the subject, he held out the forgotten glass of water. "Thought you might want some water."

"Definitely." She finished it in three swallows and handed it back. "Again, thank you."

He nodded, bashful, and worried the hem of his shirt, not sure how to proceed. He felt like he was in some kind of fairy tale; any moment now, reality was going to crush him. He couldn't keep her here forever. Eventually, she'd have to leave---and how in God's name was she supposed to do that, without aircraft? 

He placated himself with the fact that she wouldn't be going anywhere in her condition. Going to the window, he drew the curtains aside and let more of the diluted winter sunlight in. The glass was cold to the touch. He wasn't sure how to proceed until she called him back. 

"Karkat."

He turned, cautiously, and met her eyes. She was serious again. "Come here."

He did so, unsure of what to think, especially when she reached into her trousers and removed something metal. He swallowed. It was a gun, a rusty revolver that looked menacing even from across the room. He crossed the floor to the bed, never looking away from it.

Her eyes burned. "You need to hide this. If they come into your house and find this, you're dead."

"And what about you?"

"This first." She thrust it into his hands. "Go on."

Karkat nodded and held it as gingerly as he could, going outside to the barn---the animals bleated and whined, but he couldn't be bothered to take care of them just yet---and climbed to the upper level, crunching through straw to the darkened back corner. It was here that he opened a sack of feed and stuffed the gun deep, deep inside of it, setting the sack in its place and exiting swiftly. 

Jade was sitting up now, which he took as a good sign, with one arm wrapped loosely around her torso. "It's hidden?"

"It's hidden."

"Good." Her expression twisted with pain as she shifted, settling back against the pillows. "Good."

He paused in the doorway, wondering how to word something that had been bothering him for some time. "Your plane---it burned up out back, behind the trees. There's still smoke. Don't you think that'll tip them off? That something's wrong?"

"It could," she reasoned, dark eyebrows furrowing. "They might pass it off as a natural fire, but it's a wet winter---it's not full-proof."

"So?"

"So expect some Nazis at the door."

* * *

By the time John woke, the girl was gone. 

He agonized over the exchange for the next few hours, certain that the Germans were going to drop into the tunnel at any moment, but the only visitor he received was a grizzled revolutionary who brought him food, water, and a lucky find: another blanket. The Frenchman left without ever realizing that the same ladder he climbed up had been used by a Nazi's daughter. 

John ate slowly, so as not to upset his stomach, and wrapped the new blanket around his shoulders. The warm weight was a small comfort. Full, he leaned back against the curved wall of the tunnel and rooted through the pile of books next to him. He'd read most of them by now. He reached for _White Fang_ , which he'd already completed at least four times, and flipped it open, not really reading the words; just enjoying their familiarity. 

This was how he usually spent his nights, reading until the first cracks of sunlight pushed their way in through the hatch, and then sleeping until someone arrived to bring him food. He only needed a few hours of sleep, anyway. He was nearly to the end of _White Fang_ when his natural alarm clock told him he ought to be getting to bed. 

He readied his meager pile of blankets and sheets and prepared to lie down for the day. Sleep came easier to him than anything else, a true blessing. He was practically eager for the bliss of unconsciousness. He was interrupted by a heart-squeezing sound---the sound of footsteps on snow above him, the shuffle of displaced snow. 

So this was it, then. The girl had spilled his secret, and he was about to die. All the romanticizing of death he'd cooked up over the years dissipated instantly, leaving him short of breath and cold all over---and not from the temperature. He scrambled around the bend and peered around the corner as the hatch lifted ever so slowly, snow plopping wetly into the tunnel, and a pair of girl's shoes descended the ladder.

He didn't move at first, certain that the shined shoes of a German soldier would follow, but she appeared alone. _"Hallo?"_

John moved back into view cautiously, ready to bolt if reinforcements arrived, but there were none. An intrigued grin popped up on her face. He had the impression that he was a passing phase to her---something interesting to pass the time with and nothing more. Teenage rebellion at its most extreme, he thought. A Nazi's child fraternizing with a Jew. She seemed to think it all as good fun. Sport.

"What time is it?" he asked meekly, confused by her presence. 

"Half past six in the morning," she replied, checking a silver watch and then stuffing it back into her coat pocket.

He rocked on his heels, dumbfounded. He didn't know how to speak to this girl---this girl who could kill him at any time with just a few words. "What are you doing here?" 

She laughed aloud, a strange sound around here. "I would have explained it to you earlier, if you hadn't fainted like some kind of _mieze_. I figured you'd be up by now, and it's easier to sneak out at this time."

He stared blankly until she went on.

"You're a weakling. I'm here to make you stronger."

He stared blankly some more.

"What's your name, anyway?" She squinted at him in the low light.

"John. John Egbert." He didn't see the point in withholding this information; he was dead anyway. 

"Vriska Serket." She didn't move to shake his hand, making it quite clear that the balance of power between them was no balance at all---she held all the cards. 

He engaged in conversation again, no matter how difficult it was, because as long as she was talking to him, she wasn't talking to _them_. "And . . . you want to do what now?" 

"Keep up, you don't look stupid. _Make. You. Stronger._ You're pathetic, hiding down here."

He knew he was pathetic, but he was slightly less pathetic than the Jews toiling in the camps or rotting in the ground. He didn't think he'd like whatever she had in mind. "How do you plan on doing that?"

"Well, for starters, I can get you out of this hovel," she scoffed, gesturing to the stone surrounding them. 

His palms started to sweat. "I don't think---it's not a good idea for me to leave."

"Don't be a baby," she said, brushing him off. "They won't know you're a Jew if you don't look like one."

And that was how he found himself standing awkwardly by the wall while she swung a rucksack off her shoulder and rummaged around in it, tossing several articles of clothing at him. "I got these from town, so you should blend in well enough."

He wordlessly went around the corner to change, drawing on the new slacks, shirt, and coat. The cleanliness of the fabric was foreign to him. As he went through the motions of dressing, he fumbled with a way to tell her that he didn't want to go outside, and if he went outside he was good as dead, but he couldn't think of the right words. Fear was a funny thing. When he was finished, he veered back into the main tunnel to find her critically perusing his reading material.

"London? Really? All of this pig shit is banned, anyway," she scoffed, dropping _White Fang_ carelessly into his book pile.

"It's not pig shit, it's classic," he countered, before remembering who he was speaking to. She grinned. 

"Don't bite my head off," she said loftily, clearly amused at having struck a chord in him. "Come on, let's go."

"Go where?" 

She paused, one hand on the ladder. "Don't you want to see the town?"

He remembered the town well enough, for those few precious months when he actually lived there. He went to a school next to the church, had friends there, and slept in a warm bed in his own house. It was nothing compared to his life in Germany, which was poorer and boundlessly more fun for him (up until Hitler took power), but it was pleasant. He had to admit it---he did want to see it again.

"I don't want to be caught," he hedged, but she wasn't having it, already climbing up and pushing open the hatch. Cold air bloomed in the small space. His new coat was amazingly warm, however, and he buttoned it up as he hurried after her. 

"If one of the revolutionaries sees me, I'm really in for it," he informed her, as they emerged on the empty, icy platform.

"They won't recognize you," she promised, handing him a final article of clothing: a newsboy's cap. He screwed it on low over his eyes and shoved his hands in his pockets. 

They wound through a short stretch of forest and over a quaint bridge to get into town, a journey he hadn't made in almost two years. Blâmont hadn't changed at all. Under the dusting of snow, it looked exactly the same, right down to the cobbled streets and huddled citizens. And no one turned to give him so much as a glance.

Vriska, on the other hand, was openly stared at---John noticed the way people would stop and look as they passed, look at _her_. So her father wasn't just a Nazi---he had to be bigger than that. Otherwise, wouldn't the townsfolk skip over her, too? But he didn't dare ask her.

"Where are we going?" he asked, under his breath, as they passed a bakery. 

"No where in particular," she told him.

And it was the truth. They didn't go anywhere special; they walked the streets, keeping their heads low when a soldier passed, never really going inside of the quaint shops, just looking---but it was enough for John, who was so used to slabs or grey concrete surrounding him day after day, who'd forgotten what natural light felt like. 

Night swept over them fast and hard, and they returned to the tunnels with rosy cheeks and nothing more---perhaps a better understanding of each other, but even with all the things she'd told him about her life topside with the Germans, he didn't really know anything about her, and she didn't know anything about him, either. It was stupid and exciting in equal parts, and he knew that he was losing his mind, because as soon as she was gone, he wanted to see her again.

* * *

By nightfall, fresh snow began to drift down and the temperature was frighteningly low. Eridan threw a coat on over his uniform and went out into the dark embrace of night as soon as everyone was settled in. Though it was frigid, and his fingers felt fit to drop off, he stood in the circle of light cast by a lantern and lit a cigarette, sucking on it angrily. This was ridiculous. 

He'd managed to elude Sollux Captor for all of yesterday and today. Though he admitted that Captor couldn't possibly have known about what was going on with him, he still did everything in his power to avoid the technician. This was made especially difficult when Captor's face invaded his thoughts regularly. 

He tried not to dwell on it. It was snow fever, he promised himself. He'd just been surrounded by men for too long. How could he not lose a little sense over something like this? 

Despite these assurances, he still felt dirty and wrong, and plotted ways to convince himself that nothing was wrong with him. He only drew one conclusion. He just needed to be with a woman, and put all of this behind him. Especially thoughts of Sollux Captor.

Of course, it was easier said than done. There weren't a lot of available females at all in the barracks---in fact, he could only think of two. One, a lieutenant's daughter who had a terrifying laugh; and then, even more out of reach, the major's wife and daughter. 

He'd seen the major's daughter before, around the camp, almost always with the other girl---her name was Vriska Serket and she was as terrifying as her father. But he'd never been one to back down from the challenge of wooing a woman. 

There was still the matter of finding her---he hardly ever saw her, and she was usually accompanied by Terezi Pyrope---so he was pleasantly surprised when her figure unfolded from the gloom and passed within inches of him. He pinched the cigarette between his lips and took a few steps toward her, hands in his pockets.

She didn't pay attention to him, wrapped up in her thoughts with an oddly triumphant look on her face, and he had to call her name twice before she turned to look at him. 

"What do you want?" she snapped, not interested. He wasn't to be deterred.

"No need to be hostile," he said, soothingly. He proffered the pack of cigarettes. "Want one?" 

She eyed him suspiciously, but took one nonetheless. He lit it for her. He'd read some psychology babble once about this, how to ingratiate someone and make them feel obligated to do things for you. Though he doubted a cigarette was enough to reel her in.

She puffed on it in silence, standing a few feet away from him all the while, her slim figure half-inside-half-outside of the ring of light cast by the lantern he leaned against. When she was finished, she let the cigarette fall unceremoniously in the snow. "Thanks, private. See you around." 

She turned on her heel, ready to leave him there, but he merely fell into step beside her. "I wouldn't be an upstanding German man if I let a lady walk home alone in this darkness, would I? Come on, your house isn't far from here." 

Her expression made it clear that she didn't honestly care for his company and certainly didn't need his protection, but she didn't press the matter, allowing him to walk her up to the major's house. It was large---the only permanent structure the Germans had constructed, the only building that would be left behind if the Nazis were ever to leave. But, most importantly of all, it was empty: the major was on business in Paris for the week and his wife had accompanied him. The house creaked silently but for the daughter they'd left behind.

At the steps leading up to the house's door, he stopped. She looked down at him from the top of the stairs. In the heavy darkness, it was as if they were the only two people in the world; it was not romantic, but startling. 

She taunted him. "Well? Aren't you going to march home now?" 

He rested one foot against the lowest step. She was so, so easy to read. Always looking for the thrill, always shooting first and asking questions later. People like that were easy to twist around your finger. "What? Afraid your daddy's going to find out you were outside after dark, princess?"

And that's all it takes to set her off. He has to fight a winning grin when she hops the steps and kisses him angrily. No romance in the kiss, no hint of attraction---it's just fighting, and he's letting her win, letting her do whatever, in the hopes that his body will respond---he goads her the way he goads Captor and she fights back the same way, and he prays that that's enough. 

Later, in the early morning, in her bed with the flower-patterned wallpaper, he lights a cigarette because that's what men do in movies and he thinks. She's sleeping, naked and sprawled unabashedly half-under the covers. He can't really remember anything satisfying about the night at all, and it is with dread when he slowly dresses and leaves, snubbing the cigarette in the major's ash tray on his way out.

* * *

Feferi, for all her wealth and status, had an unshakable habit of waking up very late most days, so Aradia woke earlier than she needed to, threw a coat over her maid's uniform, and bustled out into the street more than an hour before her shift started. She did not go to work first.

Rue Lumiere was lined with quaint row-houses, the kinds that had been inhabited by the same families since the Revolution, and it was on this street that Aradia Megido stepped onto early Monday morning. An overwhelming assurance of safety seeped from the sagging old houses. It was the only street in Blâmont that had yet to be visited by German soldiers. Though she knew it was silly, she liked to pretend that it was impenetrable to enemies.

She climbed the wooden steps of a particularly aged house, shuffling her feet as she crossed the covered porch to keep warm. The snow was falling in fast, unrelenting flurries by now. She knocked until her knuckles sang in protest. Latches shifted behind the door, which opened to reveal a wizened face. 

"I thought you'd come by today," the old woman remarked triumphantly, peering at her from the crack in the doorway.

Before Aradia could answer, the door was flung open and she was admitted entrance. The interior of the house was dim and mercifully warm. The old woman, supported by her cane, clunked noisily down the hallway and stopped before a closed door. Aradia itched to open it.

"The money, first," the woman warned.

Aradia averted her eyes, dipping into her pocket and removing an envelope stuffed with half of her week's wages. The old woman tucked it into her housecoat and pushed the door open with her cane. Aradia entered, heart in her throat. The door shut behind her and the woman's cane drummed away. 

The room beyond was bare but for dreary winter sunlight, a rocking chair, and a crib. Aradia paused in the doorway, afraid, as usual, of seeing just how much the child had changed since she'd last visited. She took a few hesitant steps forward. A few more. 

At the crib, she leaned over the rail and looked down. The child was perfect to her---fair skinned, black haired, and behind her closed eyelids, she boasted her mother's eyes: warm brown, with the faintest burgundy tint. She looked nothing like her father. 

Just thinking the word--- _father_ \---made her feel like the snow outside was piling up in her stomach, numbing her insides and bricking up her throat. _Father_ implied someone with a name and a face---not a random German soldier she'd passed on the street one night, in an encounter she was not likely to forget soon. 

The child in the crib, tangled in blankets, stirred; for a fleeting moment, Aradia hoped that the girl would fall back to sleep. Instead, a sleepy cry issued from round pink lips, followed by a louder, clearer one. Aradia leaned down and scooped the kicking girl up in her arms. She struggled at first, but sank into her mother's embrace seconds later, falling into a deep sleep once more.

The door creaked behind her. She glanced back, not surprised to see the old woman watching her curiously. 

"Have you thought of a name for the poor thing yet?" 

She had, but she didn't say it. It had come to her only a few days prior, when she'd been reading a BBC report on the war in Africa; the Italians, in their jet planes and with their loud guns, had stormed the African planes and decimated the tribes. One tribe stood out in her mind---called the Damara tribe, they'd fought the Italians off with sticks and spears. It spoke to her, so she said it. 

"Damara."

The old woman nodded in approval.

"Pretty name," she said, with the wisdom that comes with age. "Real pretty. Will you be leaving soon, dear?" 

"Yes," she said, reluctantly. Aradia hated coming here---hated seeing the child that came from pain, from attack, from rape---and she hated loving the girl dearly. You couldn't hate something that had lived inside of you, something your body had accepted without giving your mind a choice. And as much as she hated arriving, she hated leaving even more---hated to see the way her daughter changed and grew in the span of time in which she didn't see her. A frighteningly large span indeed.

So she kissed the girl on the forehead, set her down, and left, headed for the Inn; she had work to do, after all. And like every time she left the house on the tiny street, she thought in circles; she obsessed over her child, and when she was done with that, she obsessed over Feferi Peixes, who knew absolutely nothing of the girl.

That was the worst part, having such a massive life-altering secret and not having the courage to share it with the one you love---or claim to love. But every time she considered coming clean, telling Feferi that she'd had a child with a random German soldier she didn't know, her tongue went dry, silencing her before she even spoke. Life was hard, and she thought that she made it so much harder on herself, when it came down to the wire.


	3. Uncommon Valor was a Common Virtue

Sure enough, there was a package delivered to his room the next day. 

He took it from Rose Lalonde shakily, then locked his door tight, drew the blinds on the windows, and dimmed the lights. It was a plain box wrapped in brown paper. He tore it away carefully and opened the box; inside, the dark metal of several firearms gleamed dully at him. His breath felt shallow. 

He inspected them, one by one, taking them out and checking the ammunition. Two revolvers, a sleek handgun, an automatic rifle that took up most of the box's capacity. He laid them all out on the bedsheets and stared at them for a while. Fortier was good on his word---he didn't know where he got these weapons, and he didn't want to. They were Dave's problem now, his responsibility. The last thing he needed was for a Nazi to find him hoarding guns in his room. 

So he hid them, expertly, borrowing a hammer and crowbar from a supply closet two doors over and tearing up the floorboards of his bedroom, one after another, until there was a gaping hole in his floor bigger than he. Rats squeaked and ran from the sudden light flooding the crawlspace beneath the floor. He pushed the guns into the corners of the hole, away from the light, and then painstakingly nailed the boards back into place, meticulously, so that one couldn't easily tell that they'd been moved at all. 

The operation took him the whole afternoon. By nightfall, his back ached from bending over and his fingers throbbed from carpentry. He wasn't surprised by Rose Lalonde's appearance at his door that evening. 

"Corporal, is everything alright? There are some concerns about the noise you've been making," she said, eyebrows furrowed. Suspicious. Great. 

"Everything's fine," he promised, not sure what lie to use in this situation. "Just . . . redecorating." 

Her eyebrows shot up at this, but she didn't comment. "Very well. You're welcome downstairs for dinner, if you're done _redecorating_." 

She turned with a swish of her skirt and left him feeling very stupid in the doorway. 

He changed into clothes that weren't dusted with wood shavings and did as she suggested, taking another table for two in the pub downstairs and waiting for her to arrive, as usual. She didn't take his order, just brought him a meal without any prompting, and he accepted it gratefully because it was simply easier. 

When he was done, and the busboy had cleared his table, she sat down across for him like she'd done when delivering his mail. He looked up from his hands---they had tiny cuts all over them from the woodwork he'd done, and he was worried about how incriminating they were---and noticed her. "More mail?" 

"No." She held her chin in one hand, watching the fire contract into embers across the room. "Just a chat." 

He folded his arms on the table, happily surprised not to have a message from the French rebels. "That's good to hear." 

"Why? Is your mail unpleasant?" 

Damn. He'd been trying to keep his involvement in the revolt under wraps---she knew that he was in France for the express purpose of fighting the Nazis, but that was it. He didn't want any of the natives knowing any more than that, but she seemed intent on snooping. Smoothly, he replied, "Rather, I find our conversations very pleasant."

She seemed to buy it, for the time being. Bullet dodged. 

"I can't help but be drawn to you," she said, somewhat apologetically. "You're so exotic. An Englishman, in the middle of French country. It's unheard of." 

"I can't be the only Brit you've ever met." 

She smiled wistfully. "Corporal, you're the only person I've ever met who wasn't French or German. We don't get much traffic here." 

"You don't travel?" On military duty, he'd visited Japan, Russia, Slovakia, and now France; in between those places, he'd passed through countless cities and towns and countries, met people of all calibers, tasted strange foods and heard strange tongues. And here was a woman who seemed so cultured, so grounded, who had never been past her town's borders. 

"I couldn't. If I wasn't here to watch the inn, it'd fall to pieces." As if to prove a point, a glass shattered loudly from another room. She debated getting up to check on things, but eventually settled on staying. 

"That's a shame. Perhaps you're due for a vacation."

"Maybe. If I live to see this war through, that is." 

"I'm sure you will," he said, and he believed it. "I'm sure we both will."

"I'll hold you to that promise, Corporal."

-

The next morning, he slept in, lying in bed late into the morning. 

The inn was very quiet before the lunch hour, and he could hear the building draw breaths with the wind outside. He folded his hands behind his head and stared up at his ceiling, listening to the dull quiet, and felt very peaceful. 

German voices broke the stillness like gunshots. 

_"Miliz! Öffnen sie die tür!"_

His heart stopped, restarted, raced out of his chest; for a moment, he wasn't a solider, but a very scared man with no escape plan. But this moment of weakness didn't last long. 

He threw himself out of bed, stepped into his trousers, and reached under his bed for the hammer he'd stashed there the previous day, preparing for this very scenario. Downstairs, he heard the front door bang open and heavy footsteps pound the floorboards. He dropped to his knees with the hammer and began feverishly clawing nails out of the floor. Something crashed downstairs, and as he opened a hole in his floor for the second time in two days, he wondered if Rose Lalonde was alright. 

No time to find out. He lowered himself into the dark gash he'd made, his fist clenched around the displaced nails. This was the tricky part---nailing the boards back into place from below, horizontally, and it took all the strength and skill he could muster. He kept his ears honed on the rough voices downstairs as he worked, terrified that they would float up the stairs and discover him. 

As he nailed the last board into place, sealing himself into the dark crawlspace beneath the floor, the voices did come closer. Up the stairs, into the hall. He bated his breath and reached out in the tiny, dusty space, his fingers scrabbling in rat shit and wood shavings until they found the butt of a revolver and drew it closer. He held it to his chest and waited.

When they stopped at his door, a key jangled in the lock and door flew forward with enough force to slam into the wall. His breath stopped, chest moving but no air circulating inside the cavity. The Germans spoke in their harsh, guttural tongues, knocking things over, rustling their guns.

Then, in French: "Inn keeper, where is the man who rents this room?" 

His heart stopped, now, as Rose answered, her voice almost as still as ever; but he could hear the fear, the undertone of terror that she so well disguised. "He must have left, sir. He is a busy man." 

"Oh yes? And he is a Frenchman?" 

"I believe so. He spoke the language." 

"That means nothing," another voice spat. "When that man returns, it would be wise of you to let us know." 

They started to leave, stomping out of the room. Dave had been counting their voices, their footsteps---he knew that six had entered, but so far, only five had left. The last man's boots clunked slowly, measured, around the room. They seemed to circle over his hiding spot---did the man suspect him? His grip on the revolver tightened. 

But the footsteps began to track for the door. Without a word, the man left. 

He lay prone in silence for who knew how long; it could have been a few minutes, could have been a few eternities. Just when he was wondering if he should begin the painstaking process of getting out, a soft voice floated towards him. "

"Dave?"

In all the commotion, he'd forgotten to account for Rose Lalonde, still in the room. He thought that it was the first time she'd ever called him Dave.

"Are you here?" 

He remained silent. Certainly the Nazis could have asked her to call on him, to trick him into revealing his position; but something told him this summon was genuine, and so he sighed and answered, "Rose." 

Her breath swooshed out with relief and her quiet footsteps came closer. "Where are you?"

"Under the floorboards. Keep back while I get out, alright?" 

She obliged. He let the revolver fall to his side and he took up the abandoned hammer, using its end to break the nails free of the wood. It was slow going from this side, and uncomfortable; wood shavings snowed down and got in his eyes and mouth, and it was too dark to see the nails---he had to feel along the rough undersides of the boards and attain a thousand splinters and cuts. 

When he finally drew himself out of the hole, covered in chippings and scrapes and looking like some kind of---well, some kind of fugitive---Rose was sitting on the edge of his bed, visibly shaken, her eyes wide and her face white. 

"Are you alright?" he asked, brushing himself off and sitting down next to her. 

"I should be asking you the same thing," she said, looking him up and down like he was a lake monster. 

"I'm fine," he promised, peeking over his shoulder at the closed door. It hadn't busted forward, there were no Nazis; he was safe, for now. "Sorry for all the carpentry I've been doing. Add it to the tab." 

"Never mind that." She also glanced at the door. "How did they know where to find you? I thought you'd be safe here." 

Dave leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and considered that. "They could have captured one of the rebels and gotten information from him. Or they could have seen me on my first day here---I was in full British military dress, after all. Can't get much more conspicuous than that." 

"They're going to come back, aren't they?" 

"Most likely, yes," he said apologetically. "Sooner rather than later. I'll have to tell Fortier that we can't wait any longer---we have to put our plans in action soon." 

"How long? Before they come back?" 

"I'd give it two, three days. If we're lucky." 

She stood up, a new look of resolve on her delicate features. "Then we have our work cut out for us." 

"Us? No, me. Please, they'll kill you without a second thought. Just stay here and don't get yourself shot in the head, won't you?" He was reminded of all the civilians he'd seen in his career, all thinking they could be the heroes of their towns and all ending up dead at the hands of those more powerful than they. The image of Rose Lalonde lying with a bullet in her head on these quaint streets made him feel like the Nazis were in the room again.

"I'm going to help you whether you want it or not," she warned, heading for the door. She paused with her hand on the doorknob. "It's the least I can do."

* * *

Karkat had fallen asleep in the chair by Jade's bed that night, and in the morning, he came to and found her already awake, looking through a crudely made scrapbook that he knew had been sitting idle on the bedside table for years. He hadn't given it a thought since his mother's passing. 

"Is this your mother?" she asked, pointing to a photograph of his family. He sat on his mother's lap, somewhere in the range of five years old, while his father stood, his hand on his wife's shoulder and a hearty smile on his face. Karkat hadn't seen him smile like that in years. 

"Yes," he said, because it was the truth. 

"She's beautiful." 

"I thought so, too," he agreed, remembering her last days, when the pneumonia was in its final stages and she coughed for hours at a time. Even then, she was lovely.

"I'll go get breakfast," he said, getting up hurriedly, but she stopped him.

"We have some things to discuss first." 

"Like?"

"I'm going to get better eventually." She pushed herself into a sitting position. "And when I do, I'll need to get away from here." 

He swallowed. "How? You don't have any aircraft." 

"That's the problem," she muttered, bright green eyes narrowing in concentration. "Since there's obviously not an airplane hangar in a small town like this, I think I'll have to call for help."

Karkat's eyes widened. Sending out a telegram or a radio transmission was dangerous. Anything that the Nazis intercepted could lead them straight to his home, and if he was discovered with a Soviet in his upstairs guest room, they'd both be shot, or worse. "Isn't that risky?"

"I have no other options," she explained, determination coloring her skin. "Do you have a radio?"

He did. It was downstairs, in the cellar, because his father had used it to communicate with the other rebels before he moved into town altogether. Karkat hadn't been down to the cellar since his father had left, simply because the reminder was harsh: his father cared more about liberating France than he did about his son.

In the cellar, he turned on the dim lights and stumbled through the gloomy mess of forgotten belongings, eyes on the ham radio set up on a rickety table. He gathered the radio up in his arms---it was bulky and heavy, and he was terrified of dropping it on his way back---and returned to Jade's bedside.

"This should do," she said. She coached him on how to set the device up and then began turning the dial with minute care, ear cocked towards the static the radio produced, scanning frequency after frequency. It seemed like it would take some time, so Karkat headed back downstairs, took care of the irritable animals outside, and then made breakfast. 

As he carried it back upstairs, he heard her speaking: Russian, fast and guttural and completely foreign to his ears. Another, crackly voice joined hers, an exchange that made no sense to him. He waited until the room was quiet to enter. 

"Did you hear that?" she asked warily as he set the tray down at the foot of the bed. 

"Yes. Didn't understand it, but I heard it." He fell into his usual seat and watched her guardedly. "Who was that?" 

"A colleague," she said after a moment. Another Soviet, he interpreted. 

"What did they say?" 

"They're on their way."

He was jittery for hours. Even though she assured him that her "colleague" would need several days of flight time before they arrived, he could only imagine all the things that could go wrong---the Nazis finding her before her friend; the other Soviet dying before they reached the Vantas farm; Jade Harley's health taking a turn for the worse. To distract himself, he took care of things around the farm, even went to town to buy a few necessities from the general store. He didn't see his father while there.

On his return, Jade was sitting up in bed reading a newspaper he'd brought her. Her eyebrows were scrunched low over her eyes. News wasn't good; the Americans were winning against the Japanese navy, which was a relief, but it did little to affect occupied France. The Red Army, to Jade's dismay, was making little headway on German fronts. Much of Eastern Europe was under Hitler's control, and Russia seemed next in line.

She muttered a curse in Russian and looked up at his entrance. "Have you read the news? This is horrific." 

"I have." His chair by her bed felt more familiar now than it had in the seventeen years he'd been acquainted with it. 

"I should be out there," she hissed under her breath, balling the paper up and setting it on the bedside table.

He wondered what it was like to live with such a purpose, to be able to say you've dropped bombs on Germans and survived plane crashes and probably bullet wounds and all sorts of other things. As a farm boy in eastern France, he couldn't say he'd ever felt as though his work made much a difference in anyone's life but his own. 

"I have a question," he began, delicately. 

"And that is?" 

He held out a scrap of fabric he'd been holding onto since he'd discovered her---the part of her ruined uniform shirt that had her last name printed on it. "Why don't you go by your real name?"

He waited with bated breath, afraid of offending her, but she only sighed. "I suppose it wouldn't hurt to tell you---I'll be gone soon anyway. You see, I had stopped at a field hospital a few months ago in Czechoslovakia to fuel up. It was an American encampment, and they were happy to have me---fed me, gave me a bed to stay the night, everything. There was a Red Cross volunteer there, an old nurse named Jade Harley, and she was wonderful. Couldn't speak a word of Russian but we understood each other, I think. That night, Germans bombed the camp." 

"Oh," he mouthed, throat too dry to push the word out all the way. 

"She was dead instantly." Her eyes betrayed a past sadness, one that touched her no longer but still left its mark. "I wasn't so lucky. I escaped in a new plane, but that woman's kindness stuck with me long after I left---in the end, I think it's easier to go by someone else's name than my own. Everyone wants to be someone they're not."

* * *

Vriska didn't visit for another three days, and when she did, his heart sped up with fear and anticipation of what she had planned.

He was surprised by her demeanor---instead of a mischievous, take-life-by-the-horns air, she seemed moody, her eyebrows pulled low and close together as she descended the ladder into his tunnels. He was sitting against the wall with _White Fang_ in his hands when she arrived in her storm-like fashion, encompassing his attention, drawing the energy of the room into herself.

"Hello," he said brightly, jumping to his feet. This was the highlight of his week, these meetings---he needed this connection to the outside world so badly, needed to feel Vriska Serket take over his thoughts every now and then. 

"John," she said shortly. He sensed that something was wrong. 

"Are you alright?" 

"Peachy," she snapped, dusting snow from the sleeves of her sweater. "Are we leaving or what?" 

"Um, yes." He followed her up the ladder and onto the platform. January bit his cheeks as he shut the hatch behind him. When he straightened and turned around, she was already bounding up the path back to town. He hurried to catch up with her.

"Something wrong?" he prodded again, afraid of the answer. 

"Nothing that you have to worry about," she replied, her eyes far away. He took what he could get. 

"Where are we off to?" Changing the subject seemed like a good idea, and her expression brightened somewhat at his question. 

She looked out at the frozen river as they crossed the bridge into town, contemplating. "I don't really have anything planned." 

This was enough for him. They walked as they had last time, aimless, avoiding unwanted stares. He enjoyed it as thoroughly as he had three days ago. It was only when they came to an elementary schoolhouse that they stopped, observing the modest building as snow began to fall lightly. 

"They barely have school here, nowadays," she told him, her eyes dark. "Once, twice a week maybe. Most people are too afraid to let their children out of their sight for that long. Makes me wonder . . . is an uneducated life better than an educated death?" 

"I'd like to think the latter, but when it comes down to it, people always pick life over death." He knew this from experience. 

"That's true." Her expression hardened. "I'm different, though. I'd pick death over life, if it was worth it. If it meant something. Wouldn't you?"

He was floored by her piercing stare. He wanted to agree with her, wholeheartedly, but it would be a half-truth. "I don't know." 

"You should," she said. "You should always know if there's something worthy dying for."

He could honestly concede to this truth, and they continued on, abandoning the schoolhouse just as the townspeople had. 

At the edge of town, they stopped again. The German encampment could be seen across an iced-over field. A menacing circle of tents and, rising over the green canvas roofs, the major's house. His bones felt padlocked in place. Could the Nazis who lived there sense him, the way the wolf senses its prey? Could they smell a Jew's fear like the shark smells blood?

Vriska noticed his discomfort, and for once, instead of poking fun at him, she took his arm. "Let's go."

"Fräulein Vriska," a silky voice called. "A word?"

His blood turned to ice. John was only able to revolve in place because Vriska's grip on his arm tightened suddenly, and she pivoted, forcing him with her. He stared wide-eyed at the young man coming towards them---a German in a military uniform, his rifle hanging by its strap behind his back, hat in hand. He wore thick glasses and his blond hair seemed immune to disruption by the wind.

"Obersoldat Ampora." Her voice was drier than air. "What do you want?" 

His easy mannerisms disappeared, and his face clouded. "May I speak to you? In private?" 

"Say it in front of him or don't say it at all," she barked back. "I'd prefer the latter." 

The soldier's lip curled. "Fine, then. If you want the whole town to know you're just a whore---" 

"I'd love for you to say that in front of my father, _arschloch_!" 

This quieted him momentarily. "Don't be so hasty. Now, about the other night. . . ."

"I don't want to speak to you about that mistake," she snarled. "Forget it now, and don't think I'll be too ashamed to tell my father. He'd have you burned alive if he found out what you did." 

"What _we_ did," he corrected, hands shaking. 

"Save it." She took a step back, tugging John with her. "I don't have anything to say to you." 

He exhaled visibly, a plume of his breath flowering in the wintry air. His eyes turned on John. "Who the hell is this? Already got another man in your bed, is it?" 

She struck him. John could no longer draw breath properly as she pulled her hand back, leaving an angry red mark behind on his pale skin. The soldier's eyes went wide, his long fingers coming up to feel the spot where she slapped him, and then fell limply to his side. 

"I don't care who your father is," he said, his voice low and strained and ugly. "You'll regret this." 

He looked John in the eye and then marched away. 

"Vriska---" John began, his lungs now expanding fully without him having to think about it too much. 

"Don't," she warned, her shoulders rising and falling rapidly. "Just don't."

* * *

Eridan's cheek stung long after he left her, after he'd pushed a man in the street for looking at him and told him to go home before his wife had to plan his funeral. His patrol around the town became a way to blow off steam---he barked orders at townspeople, walked with purpose; anything to get the scene that had just unfolded out of his mind. 

He was truly, truly stupid. He'd antagonized the major's daughter again---sleeping with her had been dumb enough, but he'd had to push the envelope and make things even worse. He curled his fist around the strap of his rifle, painfully tight, and tried to think positively. There was a chance that she was bluffing, that she was too concerned with appearing pure to admit sexual intercourse to her father; but she was a wildcard. He had to prepare for the worst. 

Desertion appealed to him, for a few insane moments. He could get away from the threat of the major's wrath and, more importantly, the looming agony of his strange feelings for Sollux Captor, the confusion and self-loathing that plagued him every day of every week. He could escape the pressure to be a perfect Aryan; he could live somewhere by the sea, maybe, and make a simple living and avoid people entirely.

Of course, he couldn't do that. The Nazis had ways of finding people who didn't want to be found; there would be no running from his problems here. He could only do whatever was in his power to prevent things from spiraling out of control. His prospects were bleak. 

Once he'd cooled down, and dusk began to sweep over Blâmont, he returned to the camp. The slap-mark had long faded and he was able to keep his expression clear as he hung up his weapons in the barracks. A quick peak into the dining hall confirmed that Sollux Captor was eating alone at the end of a long table, meaning the comm tent was free for use. 

He slipped inside and sealed the tent flap against the January wind, relaxing when he found himself completely alone. He sat down at a stationary desk, loaded a reel of paper in the typewriter that sat there, and titled his letter.

Father,

I'm sorry for not replying sooner. Patrol shifts have been doubled among the soldiers recently---the Frenchmen are planning something idiotic. I am assured that the superiority of the Reich will squash anything they bring against us, but it's rumored that they have a British soldier hidden in their ranks and the support of the British Army behind them. There's talk of a revolt. I find it hard to believe that one Englishman can turn the tables against our entire unit.

I'm writing to tell you that I  


That's where he stopped, unable to form the words; he couldn't admit to these cancerous thoughts, not to his rigid German father, or his rigid German bunk mates, or his rigid German supervisors. He clenched his hands into fists. Several keys clicked down, stamping out gibberish. He ripped the paper free, stuffed it in his pocket, and stormed out of the tent.

Crushingly alone with his thoughts, he wracked his brain for a course of action. There had to be some way to revert his feelings, some method of rewiring himself that he hadn't thought of. Being with a woman hadn't helped, and he wasn't ballsy enough to try anything with another man; an attempt would probably end up with him being shot. 

He felt his control over himself slipping as he boxed himself further into a corner. Something was deeply, deeply wrong with him.

* * *

She was on her hands and knees, scrubbing the floor near the front desk with soapy water, when the inn's door crashed open.

Seven Nazis in total, all carrying their rifles in both hands. They ignored her in favor of Rose Lalonde. The frontman's voice stopped time: his first barks in fast German turned heads, paused conversations, halted mugs mid-sip. Her own hands started to shake where they gripped the towel.

Rose Lalonde did not show fear, which Aradia respected more than she could put into words. Her eyes did not waver. Her voice was clear. And Aradia, well, she could scarcely breathe as the men followed Rose up the creaking stairs and out of sight, the word _Englishman_ burning on their lips. 

Six men went. One stayed. 

She dropped her eyes to the floorboards, focused all of her energy on the back-and-forth motion of the sopping towel across them; she would not, could not, look up at that man, could not acknowledge that he was there or confirm that she was there. But she couldn't ignore him. She couldn't block out the sound of his boots on the floor as he paced lazily, couldn't stop herself from tracking his motions. 

When he stopped walking, she stopped breathing.

 _Look up_ , she urged herself. _Look up_. But she couldn't bring her head up, not when there was the possibility that that soldier was the soldier who---that that soldier was the _father_. She'd been so careful to avoid Nazis at all costs, so careful to never see _him_ again---

"Do I know you?"

The tremors started in her hands again, violent, and she twisted them in the rag to keep him from seeing. The boots were right there in her field of vision. She strained against every survival instinct in her body and looked up, slowly panning up past the uniform pants and jacket and looking him in the face. 

Yes, it was him, undoubtedly. She recognized the hard jaw and lifeless eyes, the salt-and-pepper hair, the long, straight nose. Rough-looking hands that felt even rougher. He scrutinized her from where he towered, one eyebrow raised. 

_Please don't remember. Please don't remember_.

But he did. Realization dawned on his face, and a wicked grin twisted his mouth. He crouched before her, a predator content with the availability of his pray. He leaned in. "We had a lot of fun last time we saw each other, didn't we?" 

She wanted to lash out, she wanted to run, she wanted to beat him down with every nasty word she'd ever been told never to say; anything, anything but to just sit there like a rabbit staring down the barrel of the farmer's gun, anything to convince her that she was not the weakling he made her think she was, that night. 

"Not talkative, are you?" His large hand wrapped around her collar, and when he stood, he dragged her up with him. A forced step back, and the bucket of water she'd been cleaning with tipped over, sloshing water across the floor. The inn, somehow, became even stiller, quieter. She looked past the soldier desperately, searched the faces of the scattered men sitting near the bar, but they were statues, staring back at her with equally wide eyes. Useless.

He pushed until the small of her back hit the help desk. Pinned, she did nothing as he closed the distance between them, calloused fingers drawing her chin up to face him. "Less fight this time, too."

Her heart was racing nothing at all, blood stomping in her ears, and she couldn't manage to close her eyes. Couldn't give out, either. Memories that she'd hoped she'd buried already came back like water from a broken dam, encompassing everything, her senses---she was no longer in an inn, but in an alley, and it was the same man, but the alley was much colder---

Hands slipped down to her waste. Weakly, she brought her own hands up and shoved, barely jostling him. He laughed. His lips were right at her ear, the warm breath setting her to shaking again. "None of that, now." Contact. 

Every part of her was eaten alive by fear; her limbs hummed with dread, icy, useless. She no longer felt the slightest flicker of fight in her, replaced by a horrifying complacency---if it was going to happen twice, if she was going to lose everything twice, then she wouldn't do it screaming and crying.

"Stein---hands off the girl. We're leaving." 

And just like that, it was over, the German giving her a lazy smirk before following the others out into the cold again. The men across the room looked over to make sure she was physically alright, but none dared to come up to her after leaving her to the Nazi; they averted their eyes, looking intensely at their empty coffee cups and plates. 

She counted minutes, unable to unlock her limbs and begin her work again. Nearly nine minutes had passed before Rose Lalonde came back downstairs, her face hardened with some resolve Aradia did not understand, nor care to. Rose's eyes jumped from the water on the floor to the maid and back again. Then she gently took Aradia's arm and pulled her into the back room. 

It doubled as Rose's bedroom, so she was able to steer Aradia to a neatly made bed and sit her on the edge before bustling out again. She returned with tea on a platter, which Aradia did not touch, and an assurance that Aradia did not have to work today, that she could take the week off if she wanted to and not to feel guilty about it in the slightest. She was escorted home by a busboy.

Feferi was reasonably confused when Aradia arrived five and a half hours early. "Is everything alright?"

This was her chance, Aradia realized. Her golden opportunity to come clean and tell Feferi everything about the German soldier and her child, to stop the lie in its malevolent tracks. Feferi might understand, maybe. Might love her regardless. 

"I got off early," she replied simply, unbuttoning the front of her uniform shirt. "I think . . . I'll go to bed." 

Coward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oops


	4. I become Death, the Destroyer of Worlds

He was in the throes of a restless sleep when she came inside.

Her entrance roused him immediately; Dave jumped up in bed, his fingers flailing for the revolver he'd taped to the underside of the bed frame, only to let them fall slack when he saw who it was. Rose shut the door behind her. Even in the dark, he could see her hands shaking. 

"Something the matter?" he asked, groggily, trying to blink sleep from his pale eyes. 

"No." A few steps closer. "Yes." 

"Can I help you?" 

Hesitantly, she closed the distance to his bed and knelt on its edge, stopping to gauge his reaction. He scooted a half-inch over, to make room, and she took this as encouragement, joining him under the sheet, bare legs like ice against his. She wound her arms around his waist and spoke against his chest. 

"I needed company. Sorry."

-

He was awoken again just past five, this time by a sharp knock on his door.

"Corporal. Please, wake up." 

Rose was asleep on his chest, curled on top of him; he shifted her as gently as possible, drew on trousers silently, and went to peer out through the door's peephole. Fortier stood outside, tossing his weight from foot to foot uneasily. Dave unlocked the door and opened it just enough to look out. 

"It's time," Fortier said, his trim beard winking with fresh snow. 

"What---" Dave began, looking back at Rose. 

Fortier glanced up and down the hallway, already walking backwards towards the stairs. "No time. We must leave now. Get the weapons I sent and meet me downstairs." 

Dave shut the door, calming his racing mind by going through the motions of tearing up his floorboards, loading the guns into his empty briefcase and then dressing as quietly as he could. Rose didn't stir. He slipped away into the dark morning. 

Downstairs, the inn was silent. Fortier was a shadow near the front door, nervously peeking through the curtained window every few seconds. At Dave's arrival, he wrapped a hand around the doorknob. "Ready?" 

"Ready." 

The two men moved rapidly and covertly, though the streets appeared as still as death. Dave did not ask where they were going. He could only focus on being one with the darkness, following his companion and breathing only when necessary. They left town entirely, headed for the very same train station that he'd arrived at.

"This way." 

Fortier brushed thick snow from a hatch in the ground and opened it with minute care, motioning for Dave to follow as he lowered himself into the earth. Dave swept the perimeter once before descending as well, drawing the hatch shut behind him. The rungs of the ladder felt like ice under his hands; he was glad to finally set foot down on a stone floor. 

The tunnel was thick with nerves and the smell of anxious men. Revolutionaries who he had only seen in passing crowded the stone space, some carrying guns, others drinking somberly. At Fortier's arrival, all movement stopped. Many of them looked at Dave like he was of another world. 

"Our fight begins today, my friends," the rebel said, addressing the whole of the tunnel. "We have learned that the major is returning today, and he brings an Italian general with him. They know of the resistance. They plan to crush it with the Italian's guidance. They will not get the chance!"

A few men shouted in agreement. Fortier went on. "We strike now, before dawn breaks, and when the sun rises, it will shine on German blood." More shouts. "Don't be a sheep---rise up! We shall be victorious. _France_ shall be victorious!"

Now there were cheers all around. Dave, uneasy, cracked open the briefcase and handed out weapons to those who were unarmed, keeping a revolver and a rifle for himself. The men bristled, goaded by their leader's words, ready to take action. Dave separated himself from the buzz of excitement and focused on keeping a cool head. He barely noticed when the hatch overhead whined and opened.

 _"Merde,"_ several men whispered. There was a flurry of activity---some men fled to the edges of the tunnel while others pointed their weapons at the ladder. Dave's breath sped up---had the Nazis found them already? He raised his rifle.

A pair of woman's shoe's descended the ladder, followed by stockinged calves and the hem of a blue dress. A blonde girl dropped lithely into the tunnel, turned around, and went still as stone. 

"Just a girl," Fortier muttered, a bead of sweat on his brow despite the cold. "Just a girl, you cowards! Come out!" 

The men converged. Dave watched the girl's face pale, though she showed no other indication of fear. 

"What are you doing down here, girl? It's still dark out. How did you find this place?" Fortier took a step forward, his handgun fallen to his side. 

"I---" But before the girl could get a word out, another man interrupted. 

"I know her," he snarled, moving to the front of the group. "This is the major's daughter---Serket something, yes? He's probably got the little bitch scouting for us---" 

There was an uproar at these words, guns suddenly springing up and safeties flicking off. Fortier whirled on his men. "Are you daft? She's a child! Going to shoot an unarmed girl, are you?" 

"Never knew you to be a softy, Antoine," another man barked. "Come on, let's kill her. Show those Nazis that we're not some grade school kids waving around toy guns." 

"Then we're no better than them," Dave said.

The room stilled; it was the first time the men heard the Brit speak. "Excuse me?" 

"If we kill her, then we're pigs, just like the Germans," he elaborated. "That's not why I came here." 

The man pursed his lips, momentarily silenced, then retaliated, "So we're just going to let her go, and let her tell the Germans exactly where we are?" 

"Hardly. This area's secure---tie her up or however you please and leave her here. At least until the job's done." 

Fortier silenced any hushed debates by clapping his hand on Dave's shoulder. "Good man, here. He's thinking." He turned away, looking around as if searching for something. "I've got just the thing . . . Oi, John! Where are you, boy?" 

There was a scuttle of footsteps, and a thin, messy-haired boy pushed to the front, his eyes wide behind his smudged glasses. "Sir?"

"Have a job for you, boy. Watch our friend here while we're out---don't let her try anything funny, yes?" 

Dave watched the boy---John---turn his eyes to the girl and whiten visibly, his hands balling into fists. "Um---what?"

"Keep her down here until we're back," Fortier explained, raising an eyebrow. "Are you sick, boy?" 

"No!" John swallowed and shook his head in the same awkward motion. "No, no, I'm fine." 

"Atta boy." Fortier went to a supply crate, bent down, and retracted a short length of rope. He tossed the coil to John. "Tie her hands and keep an eye on her. We need to move." 

John moved strangely to the major's daughter, tying her wrists behind her back with eyes wider than dinner plates. Dave chalked it up to nerves about his responsibility and the upcoming battle. Fortier broke him from his thoughts by clearing his throat loudly.

"We're cutting through the forest northward, using the trees for cover until they end at the end of town. We'll skirt around the German encampment from behind, use darkness and the element of surprise to the best of our ability, and kill as efficiently as possible. They'll still be sleeping if we make good time---target the barracks first and eliminate all threats. Understood?"

There was a grave noise of affirmation from the listeners, who loaded coat pockets with antiseptic and bandages and ammo and began trekking up the ladder, one at a time. Dave hung back. Towards the end of the tunnel, the boy was pacing anxiously, the girl sitting sour-faced against the wall nearby. 

"John---come here." He beckoned with one hand.

White-faced, John did as he was told. "Can I help you, sir?"

"Call me Dave." He shook the boy's freezing hand. "I just wanted to tell you---you're doing fine. Don't work yourself up, aye? We'll be back in an hour's time, I swear."

John's face flashed through several emotions that Dave couldn't place, eventually settling on gratitude. "Th-thank you, sir. Dave. Means a lot." 

"Anytime. I'll be seeing you." And he ascended the ladder on Fortier's heels, feeling anything but ready to shoot Germans.

-

The men gathered now at the edge of the trees, weapons in hand, faces grave. Fortier took the lead.

"I don't see movement in the encampment," he murmured, leaning forward. "We're clear, for now. Move fast." 

They took off parallel to the German base, keeping thirty yards of distance between their faction and the tents, and moved rapidly until they were level with the major's house. The camp was still silent---it was almost too good to be true. The men crouched around a grouping of stones and awaited instructions. Fortier was squinting out at the German camp.

"Still no movement," he reported. "It's our only chance, then. We move now. Storm the barracks, get them while they're disoriented."

They were flat out running now, and Dave's bones hummed with energy as he drew close to the front of the pack. His slow life in the town had picked up rapidly in the last few days, and his heart could barely keep up. The tents drew nearer; all was still. He almost felt confident. Almost.

Something was not right. 

Clouds shifted in the east. The sun had already begun its slow climb in the distance.

He did not say it, but he was thinking it. Didn't the Germans always wake before dawn?

Panic seeped through him like a drug. 

"Fortier," he gasped, quickening his gait to catch up with the leader. "Look---look at the sun. We took too long---we have to pull back. They're already up---"

"Too late to turn back," Fortier huffed, his rifle clutched in a death grip as he ran. The tents were dangerously close. "We have to do this now, or we'll be destroyed---"

The end of his sentence was cut off by a bullet, which spiraled through his forehead and out the other end. Fortier fell in a spray of his own blood, his disfigured face slamming down in the dirt. 

_"Enemy fire!"_ Dave roared. He dived, hit the ground, and drew his rifle up, aiming wildly at the tents. He saw them now---dark shapes moving between the tents, guns flashing even in the low light. He tried to get a head count; fate was against him, and he couldn't get a reliable number. 

Another rebel, not reacting soon enough, fell with a pair of bullets in his chest. Dave winced as the man screamed, dying a slow and agonizing death, but didn't waste his focus mourning. He crawled to a jagged stone that rose out of the short grass and pressed his back up against it, taking a breather and assessing his men. They were not soldiers. Many had charged idiotically despite the enemy bullets whizzing at them, and died instantly. Others had been slow to react to Dave's warning and were shot down before they realized what was happening. The survivors had been smart enough to do as he'd done---drop to the floor and sidle to cover as soon as possible. 

"Objective has changed!" Dave shouted over the gunfire. "We are on the defensive. Main priority is staying alive, not eliminating the enemy. Understood?!"

Some of the men nodded; others gritted their teeth and tried to pop a shot off at the enemy. Dave swore. They were going to be overwhelmed, inevitably; the element of surprise was their only chance at victory, and it was shot through the roof. They'd all be dead soon if a miracle didn't drop into their laps.

"Corporal!" A young man waved to get Dave's attention from where he was crouched behind a withered log. "I was instructed to bring this---what are your orders, sir?" 

The man dashed from the log to Dave's stone, sliding to an impressive stop just as a barrage of bullets whistled overhead. His face was earnest and determined in the grayish light. "Here." 

He pushed a contraption into Dave's hands that was completely foreign to him. "What the hell is this?"

"Homemade bomb, sir," the man replied, reloading his handgun as he spoke. "Courtesy of one of our engineers. I thought you might put it to use better than me."

"You thought right." Dave's thoughts went something like this: bombs make fire. Fire spreads to things that are flammable. Tents are most certainly flammable.

* * *

Jade Harley was sitting up in bed when he came inside, peering out the window. "Soon." 

Karkat nodded in understanding, his mouth too dry to respond verbally. Anxiety was growing in the pit of his stomach. So much could go wrong before anything went right. He left the room to tend to the animals. 

When he returned, Jade was fiddling with the radio, speaking rapid Russian into the mouthpiece, her eyes wide. Karkat hurried over, unable to do anything; he couldn't follow the conversation, but he knew something was amiss by her frantic tone. She ended the conversation with what sounded like a swear. 

"What's wrong?" 

"Everything," she snapped, eyes burning. "That was a comrade---she can't fly in close enough. There are German planes circling over the town---something's going on over there, but she can't get close enough to see what it is, let alone pick me up." 

"What do we do?" Karkat's hands started to shake where he clasped them between his knees. 

She frowned, thinking hard. "She landed past the woods, past where I crashed. It was the safest way. I need to get to her---can you take me there? I don't think I can walk all the way." 

"We have a horse," he said, with grave determination. He stood. "I'll saddle her."

His heart was racing as he headed downstairs. So, Jade was finally leaving him. He was prepared for this, or at least, he'd told himself that. Now, being faced with the loneliness of his home again after sharing it with someone so incredible, he felt hopeless. 

He'd stepped a foot out into the snow and was about to shut the backdoor when from the front of the house, he heard knocking. A German voice barked a command. 

His once-speeding heart now faltered, stopped, and started to beat loud and slow in his ears. A million courses of action flashed in his mind---run upstairs to Jade, answer the door and try to talk them away, ignore them---but in the end, he took off at a dead sprint for the barn. On the upper level, in a bag of feed, he withdrew the revolver that Jade had given him. It was heavy in his hand as he ran back to the house.

Before he opened the door, he stuffed it in the back of his trousers and took a deep, steadying breath. A pair of Nazis stood on the stoop, scowling at him. 

"Is there a C. Vantas here?" he asked in poor French. 

"That's my father," Karkat answered shakily, praying that they wouldn't want to come inside. "He's not here. He's---he's been in town for the last few weeks." 

The men exchanged looks and then fixed him with unconvinced stares. His nervousness regarding the Soviet upstairs had probably translated into dishonesty in their minds---he could tell that they didn't believe him, not in the slightest. "Step aside, boy, and we're going to have a look around." 

_Shit, shit, shit,_ Karkat thought, following the men as they perused the sitting room, dining room, and kitchen. He directed them to the cellar and stood at the top of the cellar stairs while they searched it, his mind catapulting. He had to shoot them, now, before they went upstairs and found Jade. She couldn't pose as a Frenchwoman---her accent was thick---and when they discovered her, he'd be the one staring down the wrong end of the barrel. 

_Do it now, Karkat. Now!_

He descended the steps on wooden legs, one hand reaching back to find the butt of the revolver in his waistband. The men had their backs to him, bent over a table that was scattered with letters. Incriminating letters. He had no choice, now. Shoot or be shot. He drew the weapon and pointed it. His father had told him how to work guns; it was painfully familiar in this position.

His finger shook on the trigger but did not press it. 

"Oi, kid, your father is a dead man," one of them said, turning around. His eyes went wide and white as Karkat fired. 

_"Sie kleine Scheißer!"_ the other roared, whirling around and charging. The chamber of the revolver was still spinning; Karkat, on the other hand, was frozen. 

The man slammed into him, and his back hit the stairs with a nasty crack. The gun skittered down a step or two; he fumbled blindly for it as the Nazi's hands came up, shook him by the collar, and then wrapped around his throat. 

"I'll make you pay for that, you pig," the man spat in his face, breath hot. "You little son of a---"

Karkat's hands closed around the barrel. He righted the gun in his palm, barely able to register it in his hand as his oxygen supply depleted, and pressed the muzzle against the man's side. He pulled the trigger without hesitating this time. Blood splattered his front as the Nazi roared with pain, falling sideways with the force of the shot and sliding down a few steps. Karkat spat blood from his mouth and scrambled up a stair, pointing the gun at the man's forehead just as his large hand closed around Karkat's ankle. The second shot was fatal. 

He sat there for a long time, or what felt for a long time; he felt fine, physically, but his head was blank, like he still had those hands wrapped around his neck. The glassy eyes of the dead men seemed to pin him in place. He let the gun fall with a loud thunk to his side and he curled his knees to his chest, returning his breathing to its normal pace with great effort. 

He must have been there for some time, because soft, staggering footsteps sounded from the kitchen overhead. Jade appeared at the top of the cellar stairs. "Karkat---what happened?" 

And then she saw the blood covering his chest, the dead man sprawled on the bottom stairs, and she swore in Russian, limping down the steps to him. She pocketed the revolver and grabbed his arm, pulling him up with her waning strength. "Come on---can't stay here. Come on, Karkat." 

He came to his senses as they emerged in the kitchen and he threw her arm around his shoulders, helping her to a chair. She looked exhausted just from the short trip from the upstairs bedroom.

"Were they looking for me?" 

"My father," he corrected, wiping blood from his cheek with his sleeve. "They wanted my father. I couldn't---they were going to find you if I let them live. Had to do it." 

"You're very brave," she said, her face tragic. 

"Not like you," is what he wanted to say, but he didn't. He got to his feet unsteadily and opened the backdoor. "I'm going to saddle the horse. You need to leave before the Germans come looking for these men."

"And what about you?" Her eyes were panicked like he'd never seen them before. "They'll kill you when they realize these soldiers aren't coming back." 

"I'll handle that when I have to," he said, and he shut the door on her protests. The cold outside made the blood on his shirt heavier. 

The mare was eager for attention when he fitted her saddle and bridle, leading her by the reins out of the barn and up to the back of the house. Jade was standing in the doorway now, looking even more negatively affected by the chill. He had to hold her awkwardly to get her onto the mare's back, and he was thankful for a mature, patient horse as he settled them in. Jade sat in front of him in the saddle, because he didn't trust her strength to hold onto him for the whole bumpy ride; she didn't argue. 

She navigated for him, having memorized the location of her comrade's plane, and he carefully maneuvered the mare through the woods behind the property, avoiding particularly uneven routes for her benefit. As the trees thinned, he spoke. "Your plane's up ahead---at least, what's left of it." 

He heard and felt her intake of breath when they broke the treeline into the clearing where she'd crashed. Her once-majestic aircraft was a skeleton now, burnt black and reduced to a twisted metal frame. The snow around it had melted from the intense fire it had succumbed to. He kept his eyes forward as they rode past it, but he felt her head turn to look at the wreckage until they'd left it behind completely. 

More trees now, thinly spaced but close enough to feel safe. She nodded him forward. "It's up ahead." 

They entered a large, snow-carpeted clearing. A plane similar to Jade's, though considerably bigger, idled in its center, USSR painted on its belly. A woman with icy blonde hair and a uniform like Jade's stood next to it, rubbing her hands together as she watched them approach. 

Karkat dismounted and helped Jade down, assisting her all the way to where the woman stood. She spoke Russian to Jade, who replied in Russian; a few times she nodded to him or patted his arm, indicating that she was referring to him. He tried to look as casual and in control as possible, but he was covered in blood and honestly felt like he was going to throw up soon.

The woman climbed a roll-up ladder back into the cockpit after their conversation. The engines thrummed to life a moment later.

"Karkat," Jade began, turning to him. "I'm going to leave now." 

"I know." 

"Thank you for everything you've done for me. Now keep this. I want you---I need you to stay alive, for me. I don't want this to be the last time I see you." And she pressed the revolver into his palm. It was the last thing he wanted, but coming from her, it was like a promise ring. 

"I will," he assured her. "I'll stay alive."

"I don't doubt it." She pulled him into a very un-Jade-like embrace, then kissed him on his probably bloodstained cheek. "I'll be seeing you again sometime." 

She climbed the ladder and crawled into the cockpit behind the Russian pilot with difficulty, but she did it, and that was how he knew that she would be alright, somehow. He hoped he could say the same for himself. 

The mare jumped, spooked, as the engines roared and the plane began a steep climb upward, rolling through shrubbery and snow before ascending into the steel sky. He watched it go until the horse calmed down, and then he swung onto the saddle and began the short ride home. 

On his way past the wreck of Jade Harley's plane, he got a good look in, and kept going. 

He led the horse back into the barn when he arrived home, and was tracking back towards the house when he heard someone shouting his name. Despite himself, he wondered if it was Jade; his heart leaped, but he was disappointed to see that it was a farm boy from a plot a few yards down the road. He was running with urgency. 

"Karkat, it's awful--- _merde_ , you're covered in blood! What happened to you?"

"Nothing---killed a chicken," he lied. "What's wrong?" 

The boy paused, out of breath. "It's terrible, Karkat. The men of the town opened fire on the Germans and now they're all fighting. The German camp is on fire, people are warring in the streets---it's madness!" 

His thoughts went immediately to his father, who was most certainly involved. "When did this start?"

"A few hours ago, at dawn. They're still shooting right now." 

Karkat's hand tightened on the revolver. "I'm on my way."

* * *

"Untie me already, _arschloch_ ," Vriska snapped behind him. 

John turned from the hatch, which had shut on the British man and left him alone in the tunnel with the major's daughter. Shakily, he went to her and removed the rope binding her hands behind her back.

"Just my luck," she muttered, rubbing her wrists. "Stupid me, climbing right into a rat's fest of rebels. Why the hell didn't you tell me they were meeting down here?" 

"I didn't know," he promised, sitting down beside her. 

She blew an angry breath. "Wish you would have. Now we have to just sit there while they get slaughtered." 

"You think so?"

"Of course they're going to lose," Vriska scoffed. "They're a bunch of farmers and small town shopkeepers. What are they going to do against the German Army?" 

She was painfully right. 

"Is it true? That your father is coming back?" he asked.

She nodded. "He's already here, and he brought some Italian general back with him. It's all a big deal, apparently. Not that I care. I'm going to be in major shit when I get back after disappearing like this."

"He might not notice you're gone," John said, shrugging. "The revolution going on right now might occupy his full attention, if I'm guessing correctly." 

"You're probably right." She got to her feet, arms crossed tightly, and started pacing. "I don't like this, John. I don't want to be holed up in here while people are out there fighting." 

He swallowed. "We're better off here, Vriska. Less likely to get shot or killed or whatever." 

"Don't be such a baby! I'd rather be shot than look like some kind of weakling." 

John got to his feet and put himself in her path. She glared up at him as he said, "And I'd rather you look like a weakling than be shot." 

Her expression wavered, and she eventually backed down, which he wasn't expecting at all. "Fine. Fine. We'll stay here like a couple of newborns." 

"Thanks." 

They occupied themselves by playing cards; Vriska liked to gamble, and he lost to her every time. He was well on his way to losing yet again when the hatch whined open. They both froze; in a half second, John was on his feet and Vriska had her hands behind her back, feigning restrictions.

A man from the revolution scurried down the ladder, a red-soaked bandage around his forearm. He barely glanced at John as he went to a supply crate, stuffing ammunition in his coat pockets and replacing the bandages on his arm silently. As he yanked the last bandage into place, he spared John a look. "You alright, kid?"

"I'm fine," he answered. "How are things . . . up there?" 

"Better than I'd thought," he said gruffly. "We're still kicking, at least. Set the whole German camp aflame---I heard they even got a shot off on the major himself. I'd best be getting back out---good luck with this little bitch." 

And he was gone. John looked back at Vriska; her face was white, hands slack at her sides.

"Vriska?" 

She shook herself, then sprang upright, shoving past him on her way to the ladder. He closed his hand around her wrist. "Wait---"

"Don't tell me to _wait_ , John! My house is probably burnt to ashes right now and my father could be _dead_. I'm leaving." 

He was floored. "Just---what are you going to do, anyway? You don't have a gun."

She reached into the front of her coat and removed a silver revolver.

-

The town was in shambles.

"Get down!" someone roared. A half-second later, a shopfront burst into flames, windows popping outwards. 

"This was a bad idea," John panted, pulling Vriska by the arm into a narrow alley. "Bad, bad idea." 

She was too busy reloading her revolver, spinning the chamber triumphantly, to answer at first. "I don't care. We have to get to the camp." 

"We're going to die before we get there---"

"Not on my watch," she interjected, grabbing his coat and dragging him back onto the street. He winced as a Nazi soldier unloaded a full clip in an old man's chest, then winced again as a Frenchman struck the Nazi over the head with a shotgun, beating him to the ground. 

"Come on, this way---" Vriska led him through the winding alleys, off the streets where the real fights were taking place. It was a roundabout way to get out of town, but it was the safest one, so he didn't complain. 

The alleys ended abruptly and they burst out onto a wide street, at the end of which was the elementary school they'd passed on their last visit. Something was wrong. 

"Vriska---is that---is the school on fire?" John's stride faltered. The front windows of the elementary school were filled with flames. 

Undeterred, Vriska barely glanced at it. "Not our problem, John. And I'm sure no one's in it." 

But as they passed, he distinctly heard screaming--- _youthful_ screaming---and noticed women gathering outside the school, many of them sobbing, shouting names. He tore away from Vriska and flitted to the nearest woman's side. 

"What's happening here?" 

The woman gasped for breath, arms wrapped around herself. "The Germans set the building on fire---the children are still in there, and the door is stuck---"

The rest of her sentence was broken off in a soundless cry, and John stared until Vriska caught up and pulled him away. 

"We can't help them, John, we'll just end up killing ourselves in the process." Her eyes pinned his. "Don't be a hero." 

"Never said I was," he said. And he turned heel and ran back to the school.

She was on his tail, shouting at him, and he only faced her when they'd pushed through the crowd and gotten to the school's door, which was indeed shut tight. He held out his hand, ignoring her swears. "Give me the gun."

"What? No, you idiot---"

He took it anyway, shot the door's melting lock, and kicked the wood squarely. It swung inward, letting out a plume of black smoke and a wave of heat that nearly knocked him over. Vriska coughed and pulled her scarf up over her nose; John did the same, and charged into the building.

There were only three rooms in the schoolhouse, and the first one was absolutely engulfed in flames; everywhere John looked, smoke and fire pushed back at him. His feet slid uncertainly on broken desks and scraps of personal belongings. Behind him, he could sense rather than hear Vriska following him closely, and after a moment of them blundering through the smoke, he felt her hand become a vise on his. 

"Is there anyone here?" he bellowed, squinting around the room. He combed the perimeter for as long as felt safe, but he saw no signs of life and had to move on. They found a door against the far wall, which he shouldered open; the unidentifiable room was also empty, and half of it had fallen inward, its roof caved in and letting watery morning sunlight mix into the smoke. He sincerely hoped there were no children under that wreckage. 

One more room. He tugged Vriska to a side door that had barely escaped being crushed under the fallen roof. It was locked, and no amount of shoving seemed to budge it. The flames behind them gained intensity; he swore and brought the hand that Vriska wasn't holding up, as it still had the revolver, and aimed at the lock. He prayed that no one was near the door and fired at the knob. It shattered. 

The final room was less touched by the flames than the others, but still in danger of being buried under the fire; one corner of the room was covered in smoke and flame. The children were huddled in the opposite corner, while their teacher---a short, stout old woman---desperately attempted to open the window, which was set high in the wall and out of reach even from where she stood atop a desk. 

"This way!" John shouted, beckoning for them to exit the way he'd come. 

_"John---"_

He turned at Vriska's voice and saw that the rest of the room behind them had succumbed to the flames, caving in completely and blocking their escape. 

"Shit," he breathed. _Shit._

"Come on," Vriska snapped in his ear, her face twisted with determination. She barked at the old woman to stand down; the teacher complied, white-faced, as Vriska climbed onto the desk in her stead, pulling John with her. They were taller than the woman by a good eight inches, and with Vriska climbing on John's shoulders, they opened the high windows with little difficulty. 

The teacher, thankfully, had rounded the children up close, and without thinking, John scooped a young boy up and all but threw him through the window; Vriska followed his lead. The sobbing children barely protested being tossed into the alley behind the schoolhouse. 

"You're a crazy bastard, John Egbert," Vriska said through gritted teeth, helping a girl shimmy through the window.

Once all the students were deposited somewhat safely, they aided the wizened schoolteacher's escape, leaving them alone in the schoolhouse with the flames licking ever closer. 

"Let me give you a boost up," he urged, reaching towards her. 

"What about you? You're not going to be able to pull yourself up, _arschloch_." 

Panic started to swell in the pit of his stomach, panic driven by the realization that the both of them could not get out of this alive---someone would have to stay behind, and try to find their own way out. He knew that he would be the one left behind. Regardless of what Vriska had to say about it, he knew that this was something worth dying for---as death seemed to be nearer and nearer.

"You go," he said, firmly, catching her wrist. 

_"No."_

"Vriska," he started, but he didn't know how to finish. He didn't know how to say what he was realizing---that he had no future in this world but she did, that she could grow old and study and travel and he couldn't, that he was fated to be hunted down for his heritage until he or the Nazis or both were dead. 

There was no way to argue with words; he ducked forward and threw her over his shoulder, sweating from heat and exertion. She barked curses as he tried to force her escape. A few seconds of struggling later, and she landed a sharp kick to the inside of his elbow. He dropped her. With the force of her weight hitting the desk, two of its legs snapped, and they slid off the scarred desktop and onto the painfully warm floorboards. 

"You idiot," he coughed, kicking a flaming bit of debris away. "You should have left." 

"Not without you," she said, simply, her face set with resolve.

"We're going to die in here." John leaned back against the broken desk and blinked hard, clearing smoke-induced tears from his eyes. 

She sat shoulder-to-shoulder with him, scarf pressed to her nose. "You're probably right."

"I . . ." The smoke was getting to his head, making his thoughts lazy and slow. He shook himself. "Sorry I dragged you in here." 

"You were just trying to do the right thing," she said, shrugging. He was surprised by how calm she looked---not angry, not malicious. None of that Vriska-esque armor that she wore everywhere. Just a girl whose country's greatness overshadowed her.

Silence between them. The flames around the doorway were spreading rapidly. 

"This is embarrassing," he began, "but I've never kissed a girl before." 

"Oh?"

"And I would like the first girl I kiss to be you. Only you."

* * *

The rifle was cold in his hands. 

"Get a good shot off, Ampora," a senior officer grunted from nearby. He couldn't tell who, exactly---the dawn was overcast, leaving them all in shadow. But if he squinted, he could see the targets in the distance, moving closer and closer at increasing speed. Not that he was worried. He wriggled forward in the snowy grass, propping himself up on his elbows and aiming down the sight at the revolutionaries who were fast approaching.

"Fire," another officer ordered, and he did so. 

Eridan was not hesitant to pull the trigger. He watched a dark shape stumble and fall with the addition of his bullet; he repeated the action again and again, doing what he was trained to do. The distant rebels fell one after another. Shouts filled the air, as did smoke and the smell of gunfire; it was all very familiar to him, and he took deep breaths as he aimed out over the snow.

The battle quieted in record time. They weren't all dead, he knew, just hiding for a moment, recuperating. Not that it mattered. There was no way they'd be able to turn the tides of the fight, not with their shitty resources and decimated numbers. Eridan sat back on his haunches and lit a cigarette, waiting for them to make their move.

A soldier nearby laughed. "They're probably kissing their asses goodbye right now." 

"Won't do them any good," another scoffed, a sickish grin on his face.

Eridan smirked at them and took a drag on his cigarette, eyes peeled for sudden moves from out in the field. He glanced up when the snow next to him was displaced and Sollux Captor was suddenly standing beside him. Scrambling to his feet, he flicked the cigarette away and gripped his rifle. 

"You want something?"

Captor adjusted a knob on his binoculars, peering out across the field through the lenses. "Not from you."

"Good." He stalked away, heart thudding in his chest, and took up position behind an iced-over crate of grenades.

"Oi, I think they're doing something," a soldier whispered, leaning forward.

Eridan followed his gaze. Indeed, he saw a spark in the distance---a fire? Well, it was chilly. Though he didn't think they were stupid enough to warm themselves around a campfire in the middle of a battle. There was only one other use for fire in war---explosives. 

"Back up," an officer muttered. His voice gained a panicked conviction. "Back up, goddammit, it's a bomb!"

Eridan's eyes widened as a rebel stood from behind a jagged rock, reeled his arm back, and let the bomb fly---a smoldering contraption that burned bright in the dark morning, sailing forward and rolling to a stop just feet from the edge of their encampment. 

"Put out the fuse!" a soldier roared, leaping forward to stamp out the spark. 

"No time!" his officer bellowed, grabbing him by the collar. "Take cover!" 

Eridan looked down at the crate he was crouched behind. Its cover was off, revealing neat rows of round green grenades. Highly explosive grenades. He dove out of the way just as the bomb went off, and a half-second before the grenades did. 

He landed face-down in the snow, the wave of heat stifling on his back as explosions rocked the air. Coughing slush from his mouth, he crawled away from the incredibly hot flames, his rifle still clutched in two sweaty hands. He heard nothing---just a whine where hearing used to be, his ears agonizing from the proximity to detonation. 

Officers were screaming---before his eyes, a pair of soldiers dropped and rolled futilely, engulfed in flames. He got shakily to his knees, then to his feet, stumbling wildly to the nearest tent. It had caught fire and was rapidly being refurnished with the pyre; he leaned on it for a moment, then continued on. 

His head began to clear, and he re-focused on the task at hand. So, the rebels had had an ace up their sleeve with the bomb. But that didn't change anything---the German army was still superior. He still had the upper hand. Checking his ammunition, he snapped back into destruction mode and crept between two untouched tents, squinting down the barrel of his rifle. The rebels were charging again, protected by the chaos they'd created, and he was hard-pressed to get a good shot on them. 

Swearing, he tore away from his position and retreated deeper into the camp. They would be storming the circle any moment now---better to be in position here, catching them as they entered new territory. He hunkered down in the snow. The fire had spread magnificently, jumping from tent to tent with quick efficiency, and he could barely see men flitting through the smoke and ash. Not good conditions for shooting at all. He just needed an opening---

All of the breath rushed out of his lungs as a cold boot came down sharply on the small of his back. Pinned to the snow, he could barely turn his head to look up at the bearded revolutionary standing over him, a crude shotgun in his hand. 

"Last words, you monster?" the man grunted, pointing the sawed-off barrels at his head. 

Eridan's heart was icier than the ground beneath him. There was no way out of this---his rifle was still in his hand, but the man would surely shoot before he could aim it. He could barely breathe, let alone fight him off, and his stomach sank lower than the ground as he realized he was certainly about to die. 

Footsteps whispered in the snow to the left, and then the weight of the man's foot was gone. Eridan choked in a breath and scrambled to his hands and knees, looking over to see that Sollux Captor had tackled the man to the ground and was wrestling earnestly with him. The shotgun lay a few feet away. 

"Son of a bitch," the rebel growled. His hand closed around the weapon and before Eridan could even raise his own gun, the shotgun's muzzle flashed and Sollux fell to the side. Blood hit the ground just moments after the technician did. 

_"Bastard!"_ Eridan screamed, and he barely registered his own actions as he clubbed the man upside the head with the butt of his rifle, again, and again, until more blood colored the snow beneath him and the rebel stopped twitching. 

"Captor," he wheezed, dropping the rifle to the side and kneeling beside the fallen German. He rolled Sollux over and gagged a little; the shotgun rounds had carved right through his stomach and come out the other side, leaving a gaping hole and a puddle of blood. Definitely nothing he could recover from, not now, not on the field. 

"Ampora," Sollux answered. His eyes stared up at nothing, or something, or both. His voice was miles away. "Get out of here." 

"You're dying---"

"Don't you think I know that, idiot? Don't get yourself killed looking after me." 

"I . . . " _I what? Love you?_ he thought, hands lying useless at his sides. He didn't love Sollux Captor, not at all. There was nothing there but some perverse attraction that made him sick, made him want to be the one dying in the snow, but it was a strong attraction nonetheless, and part of him withered to see Sollux's eyes begin to fade. He died quietly. 

Eridan remained on his knees in the snow, failing to hear the gunfire around him, to feel the pulse of heat from behind him. In novels, and radio dramas, the hero killed himself when his lover was slain; but he was no hero, and Sollux Captor was no lover of his. There was no precedent for his situation.

He would not take up his rifle and charge after the revolutionaries, slaying them all with the fire of vengeance in his stomach. He would not write a memoir about his grand love affair or his victories in war. He could not move. Germans and revolutionaries alike passed through his field of vision; all he saw was a body that he knew he should have rejoiced being a corpse, because a dead Sollux Captor couldn't cloud his mind day and night with anxiety. 

He didn't feel very relieved at all.

* * *

"Aradia, wake up." 

Feferi's anxious voice was at her ear as Aradia woke, slowly, reluctant to leave the blissful plane of unconsciousness. She could tell by the dull light washing over Feferi's face that it was very early in the morning, and therefore neither of them had any business being awake. "What's wrong?"

"Listen."

She did, and then felt the cold fingers of fear pin her to the bed. Shouts and gunfire filtered through the thin walls of the apartment; she deduced that they were coming from the street level. She bolted upright. "What's going on down there?"

"I don't know---I looked out the window and saw people shooting, soldiers in the streets---"

"Calm down," Aradia said, holding both of Feferi's hands in her own. It made sense now: of course Feferi, who was in some ways a fugitive, would be afraid to see the quiet town erupt in warfare. "We're going to be fine." 

"We're not," the Italian whispered, her eyes wide and watery. "I heard soldiers talking---they kept saying General Peixes this, General Peixes that. What if my father's here, Aradia?" 

This news floored her, and her hands felt clammy where they held Feferi's. Aradia scooted away and went to the window, drawing the curtain back just enough to look down at the street. Indeed, the town had lost its mind---she watched as a chair sailed through a window, shattering glass and wood chippings across the ground. Moments later, a man with a hunting rifle came out dragging a dead soldier behind him. Others cheered.

"They've gone mad," Aradia breathed. She set the curtain back in place.

Feferi hugged herself tightly, her worry scrawled across her expression and body language. Aradia went to the kitchenette and set water to boil. As she rooted in the cupboard for teabags, she said assuredly, "We're safe here, Feferi. Let's just stay inside until this blows over, alright?"

"I suppose---it's just chaotic out there---the soldiers were shouting about all the streets they planned on storming, Rue Jonair, Rue Lumiere---"

The teabags skittered through Aradia's fingers and onto the counter. 

"Rue Lumiere?"

"Yes, that's what they said. I can't imagine how bad things are over there . . ."

Aradia unfroze, jerkily holding the counter with white-knuckled fists to keep herself upright. Rue Lumiere---the street where the old woman lived. The old woman who cared for her child---her daughter---

"I need to go," she blurted, darting into the bathroom. 

_"Have you lost your mind?"_

Aradia changed in record time, leaving her nightdress on the bathroom floor and grabbing her coat from the hooks by the door. Feferi caught her arm as she reached for the doorknob.

"You'll get killed out there!" 

She paused with her fingers curled around the cool metal, mind racing. She had no lie. There was really only one option---to finally come clean, to tell Feferi everything, but when she opened her mouth, the truth did not come out. "I'm sorry. I need to do this." 

And she tore out into the hallway and down the stairs, Feferi's horrified face stuck behind her eyelids.

-

Maneuvering the streets proved difficult, as people were acting like absolute brutes---she witnessed several gruesome murders before she began using side streets and back alleys to get around, sticking to the shadows as she crossed town.

Her worst fears were realized when she turned the corner around a general store and looked down Rue Lumiere, which was in shambles; people trampled broken glass underfoot as they tore homes to pieces, beating each other with the very planks they ripped from their houses; Nazis fired at everything that moved, only to be overcome by the sheer number of angry, desperate townspeople.

She could see the old woman's house in the center of the street, no worse for the wear---it seemed untouched, and hope swelled in her as she took off in that direction. People ignored her; they were busy in their own battles, roaring curses at the real enemy: Germans. Aradia met no one's eyes as she made it to the woman's house and vaulted up the porch steps, knocking rapidly on the door. 

"Go away, you goddamn heathens!" 

"No, please," Aradia said through the door, her heart thumping as if it wanted to jump through her mouth. "Please, it's me. Aradia. Aradia Megido." 

There was a beat of silence, then the door opened just enough for her to enter. She squeezed through the opening, breathing hard. The old woman regarded her with pursed lips. "I thought you'd come." 

Aradia just nodded and passed her, going into the room where Damara was kept. 

The girl was agitated from the noise outside, of course, and stirred uneasily in the crib. Aradia bent over the rail and picked her daughter up with shaking hands, nearly knocked over by relief---relief that the child was still alive, relief that she wasn't a complete failure of a mother. 

The old woman came to the door behind her. "Are you leaving?"

"Yes." She turned. "I'm taking her with me." 

The woman's eyes widened with surprise. "You're sure? It's dangerous out there---"

"I know. But I have to." 

She nodded, stepped out of the doorway. "God speed, dear." 

"Thank you." 

Out into the cold again, this time with the girl clutched in her arms. Damara whined from the sudden temperature drop; Aradia couldn't be bothered to stop. She hustled back down the street, heading for the safety of the alleyways; all she had to do was get back to her flat, and then she would have to explain the girl to Feferi---but to do that, she'd need to make it there alive. Her palms were sweating just thinking about it.

She was horrified to find that the alleys weren't as peaceful as they'd been when she'd arrived; the fights had spread everywhere, including her formerly safe passages. She cut her losses and stuck to the main streets---she'd make better time anyway, as long as she didn't end up with a bullet in her brain or worse---

"Oi, is that mine?" 

_No. God, no, not_ him _._

She could barely bring herself to turn around, standing stock still as she met the eyes of her child's father.

He was accompanied by two more grinning Nazis, all of them covered in blood, their smoking guns held lazily in gloved hands. Her lungs kept faltering---her ragged breaths wouldn't stay in there, rushing out within a half second of rushing in, and she felt dizzy as they approached. The center German---the father---waved the others away as he came closer.

"That is, isn't it? My kid?" He smirked wide as he closed the distance, towering over her. He peeled back the blanket to get a look at the child. "My, that is something special. Why didn't you tell me!" 

Slowly, she felt control of her body come back to her; her mind raced with escape plans, but her hands were full and her actions limited by the girl in her arms. All that was really free was her mouth---a statement that was, in 1942, in France, somewhat inaccurate.

"Please," she said shakily, then with more conviction: "Just let me go. I need to take her inside, get her warm." 

"I bet you do." He was unbearably close now. "See, problem is, I don't much like the idea of some bastard child of mine running 'round."

It was like an ice pick had been shoved through her chest---all of a sudden, her arms were empty and the soldier was holding Damara in a relaxed cradle, a ghost of a smirk still on his face. "Cute little thing, huh? Shame. Real shame." 

"Let her go." 

"Don't think I will, dear. Don't think I will---"

There is a clarifying moment when fear is overcome by duty, and a mother's duty surpasses all. In that clarifying moment Aradia's knee drove itself into the Nazi's crotch; in the same moment, his grip loosened, and Damara was back in her arms. 

The soldier groaned, sinking to his knees, both hands pressed to his groin. "You _bitch_ \---"

"I thought," she said quietly, staring down at him, "that I would return the favor." 

The next strike was square in his face. She ran.

She heard his companions shout after her, but she'd already rounded the corner and was sprinting by the time they discovered their fallen friend. People took no notice of her as she ran---such strange behavior was child's play compared to the murder and bloodshed in the streets. Shops were on fire, pouring heat from broken windows that kissed her face as she went. Damara wailed.

"Aradia!" 

_Oh, no, please, not you---_

Despite her intentions of heading straight home to come clean about the child in her arms, her boiling blood turned to slush when she saw Feferi bounding up the street towards her. 

"What are you doing out here---it's dangerous with all these soldiers about---" Aradia stopped, breathing hard from exertion, as Feferi came closer. 

"I was worried about you---is that a _child_? Whose baby is that?" Feferi's eyes went wide as they fell on the blanketed girl.

"Please, not here. Let's get off the street." 

They walked. The closer to the edge of town they got, the more things quieted, until they were standing on the tiny bridge that connected Blâmont to the railroad tracks beyond the woods. Aradia's hands shook where they held Damara to her chest.

"What's going on here, Aradia? Whose child is this?" 

There was no avoiding it now, no escaping this---there was only room for the truth here, so she took a steadying breath and began. "This is my child."

"I don't understand," Feferi said slowly, her hands braced on the stone wall of the bridge.

"Before I met you," she clarified, "I was walking home from work one night---"

It took several tries for the story to come out after that initial statement, but she managed it, her voice flat and her eyes distant. Rehashed like that, it was worse---the memories hit her like bricks, seasoned with shame for having kept her secret for so long. Feferi's eyes were wide and troubled as she listened.

"I don't know why I waited so long to tell you," Aradia concluded, dropping her eyes to Damara. "It was just---embarrassing, I think, and scary---"

"I'm not mad at you," Feferi interrupted. "Anyone would be scared. I wish you would have told me sooner, yes, but I'm just glad you finally have." 

Aradia shifted her daughter to one arm and reached for Feferi's hand, her heart feeling as if it had just started beating after years of dormancy. "Thank you." 

"Any time." She leaned in for a kiss, but froze when a daunting sound reached them---the rumble of a car's engine, fast approaching. 

It came from out of the forest, a black car that screamed wealth as it sped up the road. Aradia pulled away, trying to look natural as Damara began to cry.

"I don't like this," she murmured. The car rolled to a stop in front of them. An Italian man put one foot out on the snow.

Feferi opened her mouth, but no sound came out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tragic


	5. A Better World Shall Emerge out of the Carnage of the Past

Nearly all of the revolutionaries died in battle, but Dave Strider did not. When the sun set on Blâmont that evening, he helped the survivors heap the bodies into rows, watched the families grieve for their brave fathers and sons. Then he dropped his rifle in the snow and trekked back to town. 

Rose was sitting at the inn's bar when he arrived. The establishment was as empty as his head---no one in town was interested in a bed or a meal at present. 

She looked back at him over her shoulder, and he watched her expression change from shadowed to incredibly relieved; the glass she'd been drinking from slipped from her fingers and clunked loudly on the bar as she went to him. 

"You're alive," she noted, her voice much less controlled than he was used to. Her hands patted his shoulders, seemingly bemused by his existence

"I am."

"I was worried that I lost you." Her hands locked behind his neck. "Very worried." 

"You haven't," he promised. He swallowed. "Well." 

"What?" 

He took a step back, pressing his palms against the door behind him for support. This was the hard part. The reason he never should have become invested in these people. _This_ person. "My objective is completed. The Germans are withdrawing." 

"So?"

"So I'm leaving," he said. "The next train out of here. There's still a war going on, and I need to be out there fighting it." 

Her face remained relatively calm, which he respects. "When?"

"Tomorrow morning." 

She poured herself another drink.

* * *

Karkat found his father outside of the charred German camp, face down in the snow with foreign bullets in his back. 

"Oi, kid, get out of here," a man called, setting a body down in a long row of cadavers. "We need to move these corpses." 

"This is my---"

But the word _father_ wouldn't get around the lump in his throat, so he just stepped away and let the man whisk the Vantas patriarch away.

He left. A less shell-shocked part of his brain was processing facts: He was an orphan now. The family farm was in his possession, and he would have to keep it afloat. His father was dead. He didn't care as much as he thought he should. Jade Harley was gone.

Facts are easy. Facts are indisputable. You can't get mad at the sun for shining or the square root of twenty-five being five.

* * *

The people gathered outside of the elementary school waited. They waited until the whole street was flooded with smoke and ash weaved itself into the breeze, until the very framework of the schoolhouse broke under the weight of fire, but the two teenagers who'd rescued the children didn't find a way out. 

Rumors circulated between the bystanders like a disease.

"I've never seen that boy in my life. Could have been a serial murderer for all we knew---"

"I know that girl. She was a Nazi's daughter. Bet the boy was too---"

"Pair of Nazis, the two of them." 

"Yes," someone finally said. "Pair of Nazis. A pair of Nazis that saved our children's lives at a deadly cost." 

After that, the people stopped talking.

For the record: John got his kiss.

* * *

In his head, Eridan planned to take up Sollux's body and leave it in the communications tent; there he'd been most at peace, and was less likely to be trodden on by passing soldiers. Then Eridan would go out and fight and live and come back, and he would go home, eventually, see his father and put everything behind him, shut the door on all of it. 

Except it did not go as planned. He had knelt, vulnerable, unfocused, in the snow, staring down at a corpse for too long. A townsman came by with a hunting rifle, and shot Eridan in the back of his head. He felt nothing. Dead before he hit the ground. 

It was not exactly poetic justice, nor romantic unification---just something that happened, an event, a death that would not go in the history books but rather in the after-action report, another young soldier killed for reasons he didn't understand. Easily forgotten.

* * *

The man who stepped out of the car was, of course, General Peixes. Aradia had come to accept that fate had long ago marked her as a target of its wrath; she expected nothing less.

Her Italian was bad, but she understood some of what he spat at her as he crossed to where she and Feferi stood. Abomination. Unholy. Filthy. Homosexual. 

She did not have to speak Italian to comprehend the pistol he drew the from a hip holster---the click of a weapon is a universal language. 

The injury could have been spinal, maybe, or just so painful that she did not feel it, or much of anything. She registered the blood flowering across her shirt, the way the bridge shifted without her permission and deposited her on her knees, and she saw Feferi lunge for her father with a shriek that she didn't hear, saw the gun turn and point back at its owner, saw the muzzle flash, saw General Peixes stagger and fall.

In her arms, Damara wailed. 

"Take care of her," she said, as feeling started to flit away from her. "For me. Please. She needs a mother." 

"You're not going to die, Aradia," Feferi choked, but she was a terrible liar. 

_"Take her,"_ Aradia repeated, pushing the girl into Feferi's arms. "I wouldn't trust anyone else." 

_"You're not going to die."_ Again and again, as if saying something over and over will seal a gunshot wound and return blood to the body and function to the heart.

* * *

People don't measure time by hours or minutes or weeks. They measure it in pain: a month spent apart is ages longer than a month spent together. A year of happiness is a blink compared to six weeks of despair. 

So, for some, five years came and passed like the full moon, there and gone again. For others, five years were filled with five hundred infinities.

* * *

He returned to Blâmont, decorated, a war hero; hardened by five more years on the field, chiseled, shadowed with death and lifted by victory. He took the same train to the countryside, walked the same path into town, and stepped into the same inn. 

Rose Lalonde looked up at him, and set down the bottle.

* * *

Half a decade later, Karkat sold the farm, bought a boat ticket, and spent weeks on a cold, miserable ship with cold, miserable people. It docked in a wintry Russian port. When he walked down the gangplank, the smell of saltwater clinging to him like the memory of her, Jade Harley was waiting at the end of the pier. A great white dog leaned against her leg, and under her coat, she wore his mother's shirt.

"I told you I'd see you again," he said.

"Actually, I was the one who said that. But we'll have plenty of time to argue about it."

* * *

No bodies recovered from the elementary school; it was eventually taken apart by strong hands and rebuilt, into a larger, safer schoolhouse.

Mr. Egbert was liberated from Dachau in '45, and just two years later, he arrived in Blâmont. He asked around for his son. No one had seen him. 

The news came to him in the inn, while he had a drink and lit his pipe; his boy was dead, yes, but his story was incredible. A goddamned hero. And for being a Nazi's kid, the girl wasn't half bad, either.

* * *

Sollux Captor and Eridan Ampora were cremated with the rest of the soldiers killed that day. Their families were not alerted. There was nothing for them but death, nothing to remain but ash and bone, nothing to feel but oblivion. Which, either of them would have agreed, was a favorable option. 

So, for them, five years was a blip on the timeline of their eternities.

* * *

Feferi went to New York with Damara, because she'd received all the money in her late father's accounts and did not know what to do with it; because she was suddenly the guardian of the love of her life's child; because all she wanted was to forget; because the nightmares kept her up at night, and she thought that she had something in common with the city that never slept. 

At age six, Damara never failed to amaze her; she was Aradia, a carbon copy, from the eyes to the face to the way she walked, even in a little girl's body. Some nights, when Feferi's chest began to ache with her grieving and she felt like her breaths were someone else's, she looked in at the girl from the hallway and felt all of it melt away, as if Aradia was standing beside her again and they were having coffee in the tiny French flat again, sheltered from the world.

* * *

It will always be argued that war is an unspeakable horror, but, as is the nature of all things, the lives it touched did not always wither.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fin.


End file.
